


Protagonist Syndrome

by Blackarrow_bagels1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x19 fix it, Abusive John Winchester, Background Donna Hanscum/Jody Mills - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Fix It Fic, Homophobic John Winchester, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, background claire novak/kaia nieves, molting, tags will be added as i continue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackarrow_bagels1/pseuds/Blackarrow_bagels1
Summary: Who'd've thought defeating God had consequences? Certainly not the Winchesters. Now they're just trying to live their best lives and navigate the new world.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Protagonist Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: swearing, suicidal ideation, references to suicide, implied violent homophobia
> 
> please tell me if i fucked up the verb tenses anywhere in here i spent so long trying to fix them but i have officially given up. if you tell me where i missed it, i'll go back and fix it :)

God’s not dead, per se, but they are currently a three year old child in a 30 year old’s body, writhing on the ground as their aunt struggles to physically materialize in the mortal realm. Chuck is gone now. He ran off after Jack absorbed his power. Dean hopes he never sees Chuck again but cynically he knows he’s never been so lucky. Sam rushes to Jack’s side, concerned for the kid’s health. Dean’s half way there, running, until he sees her and stops short. Amara. She’s not too far, maybe ten feet away, standing exactly where Chuck had. Her face is unreadable, the conflicting mix of emotions all canceling each other out. Lazily, her black dress blows in the wind. For a tense moment no one speaks.

“You lied to me,” Amara coldly states. Dean is still, despite every impulse in his body wanting to move. All they can do is stare, trying to read each other’s looks. The distance between them is nauseating. Sam breaks the silence, whispering reassurances to Jack. The kid’s still on the ground, no longer shaking, but breathing deeply. They look exhausted, as if splitting from Amara took the same effort as running a marathon. 

“Go to her,” Sam whispered, urging Dean forward. He casts a scant look towards Jack, making sure his kid is recovering, before giving in to his brother’s instructions. Amara’s eyes follow Dean the whole time, trying to read his body language. She used to do it effortlessly, but their time apart must’ve changed something. Clearly she couldn’t anymore, or else she wouldn’t have been tricked so easily. Now, they’re only inches apart and Dean subconsciously holds his breath. As necessary as it was, Amara was right. He did lie to her. And it hurt, but he put on a brave face and lied right through his teeth to her, abusing her trust, their cosmic bond, the laws of the universe, and who knows what else. 

“You lied to me,” Amara repeats in a hushed voice. This argument isn’t something the others need to hear. It’s just between her and the man her essence is accidentally tied to. Idly, Dean itches the scar on his arm, trying to relieve the burning sensation. He nods, unable to look her in the eyes. 

“I did,” he admits, giving up on scratching his scar. The mark would always plague him, but the pain is and always will be better than the homicidal relapses. 

“We promised we’d never hurt each other,” she rephrases. Despite being billions of years old, she’s as fluent in coherent thoughts as a hormonal teenager. Dean picks up the conversational slack, answering her unstated, implicit questions. Why? How? What’s next?

“We needed you to come,” he explains, still not meeting her eyes. “Without your help, we couldn’t have beaten Chuck.”

“*You* didn’t.”

“I know.” God, does he know. God? A small part of him wonders if Jack hears that, since they absorbed Chuck’s power. Or maybe Amra hears it- Dean doesn’t know if anything changed since the split with Jack. There are too many questions and too much guilt and confusion and anger swirling around in his head. He wishes Cas were here. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, pushing that thought out of his mind. Cas is in the Empty, whatever the hell that meant. There’s no way they’d be lucky twice and get him back. Especially not since Jack’s still dazed, lying on the ground as Sam still fumbles to comfort the kid, and Amara’s still staring at Dean like he’s roadkill. He feels like roadkill. He’d felt like roadkill since Cas left. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.” Amara’s voice changes again. It’s firmer, challenging him.

“Yes, I am,” Dean snaps, finally meeting her eyes. “I wish I never found you that day. I wish I hadn’t taken on the Mark. I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t, and I’m sorry.” His voice wavers, almost breaks, on that last admission. Dean doesn’t realize he’d raised his voice until he feels Sam’s worried gaze on his back. It’s not judgemental or condemning. Sam peers at his brother the way he always did, with big, round eyes trying to learn and emulate. Dean knows he’ll be hearing about this later, and is already drafting a few ways to shut Sam down. Dreadful as that prospect is, Amara’s gaze is worse. Because while Sam looks at Dean like he always had, Amara’s never glared at him before. She used to look at Dean with passion, their cosmic, unspeakable, insatiable bond drawing them together. Now, she’s lost, eyes clouded in thought. There’s an earnest longing to her, something that desperately yearns to lean in and consume Dean, but her jaw sets in barely restrained anger. For a moment the world goes silent. Dean’s trapped, like the subject of a painting, forced into an arbitrary, static position for eternity at the whim of a more powerful artist. 

“I don’t believe you,” Amara decides. The words come slow, as if the spirit behind them is too broken to speak. Dean nods and closes his eyes. He’d lied to her before, why should she believe him now? Even if she knew he’s telling the truth, she’s right to distance herself from him. Cas had finally gotten closer, deciding to stay with the Winchesters, but now he’s rotting in the Empty. Eyes still closed, Dean feels Amara begin to leave. He ignores how the Mark still stings. She walks away, not using her power to teleport somewhere.

“Where’re you going?” He blurts out. Maybe the Mark asks it, but Dean’s not able to stop himself in time. He waits with baited breath, hoping despite himself for an answer. Amara shouldn’t answer him, after the way he’s treated her. He knows it, and feels the hesitation on her end, their bond already strained. 

“Somewhere.” And with that, she disappears. His arm cools down, and Dean finally breaths out. He refuses to open his eyes, knowing tears are on their way. They’d won. This is what victory looks like. This is what it feels like. Lonely. Hooray.

The journey to the bunker, if it could even be called that, is strange. Sam takes over driving, and Jack’s passed out in the backseat with Miracle. Dean made it clear he wasn’t ready to talk, but he has too many thoughts in his head to listen to music. And so they drive in silence. It’s surreal, seeing pedestrians walk and chat and laugh and enjoy the world. Dean supposes it’s only weird for the Winchesters. The people on the street didn’t know what they’d lost. Didn’t know God erased them from existence just to play with his two favorite dolls. Didn’t know Castiel was lost to the void, cold and alone. Not for the first time, Dean wishes he could be one of those people, blissfully ignorant. Sighing deeply, he leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

\--

He doesn’t remember what he dreamt, just the feeling. He was cold. Scared. Dean tried to call out, but his voice didn’t work. Something was gnawing at him, a feeling of isolation and dread he couldn’t outrun. It was louder than Michael’s screaming, a constant threat that the archangel’s power would overtake him. But it was also quiet, eerily so. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, just drowning in the hollow feeling. It came to an end, however, with the familiar agony of being torn apart and eaten alive.

And then he wakes up in a cold sweat. He blinks a few times, trying to catch his breath, feeling the pain and fear slowly drain from his body. Nothing tries to replace it, leaving an empty weight in his chest. He misses Castiel.

Looking around, Dean realizes he was in the bunker- in his room. The door’s left slightly open, as if he’s been carried there. Probably Sam, Dean concludes. He groans. They’ll have to talk about this later. The clock by his bed flashes the time: Stupid Early. Deciding now was as good a time as any, Dean stumbles out of bed, struggling to put on something warm. He lumbers into the kitchen, finding the lights already on. Sam and Jack are sitting at the table, discussing something. Jack looks better, their skin no longer taunt and the black circles around their eyes completely gone. They shoot a goofy grin in Dean’s direction, alerting Sam to the new presence in the room. Miracle, who’d been resting on Sam’s foot, cheerily greets Dean with a woof, partially happy to see him, partially hoping for food. 

Ignoring the dog’s pleas, Dean shuffles towards the fridge and grabs a beer. It’s the only thing he could stomach. His body aches in a familiar way, the ghost of a hundred hungry, haunting nights heavy on his bones, but he feels too sick to eat. Dean’s not even sure he could keep the beer down, as refreshing as it would be. At least if he throws that up, there’d be an excuse. Dean knows the hazards of drinking too much, yet he flirts with alcoholism anyways, determined to die hunting before his liver can get the better of him.

Wordlessly he pops the bottle open, taking a moment for the cold glass in his hands to sting against his nerves before risking a sip. He’s right: beer was too much. Choking the little bit down, he sets the drink on the table, sitting a respectable distance from Jack and Sam. 

“You’re up early,” Dean grunts, hating how bright the lights are. Jack, somehow an optimist, doesn’t seem to mind, but Sam looks awful. His eyes are still adjusting to the harsh light, hair messily falling in his face. There’re dark bags etched into his skin, and he seems off. It catches Dean’s attention instantly. Finally, something to focus on, maybe plaster over the hole in his heart that yearns for Cas. “You look like shit,” he prompts, narrowing his eyes at Sam. Sam only nods, resting his head in his hands. He’s clearly tired.

“Tell him what happened last night!” Jack encourages, either missing or ignoring how peeved their dads are. Sam mutters something that sounded something like “no you” before sighing. He’s not meeting Dean’s gaze. Jack turns to Dean, their enthusiasm only matched by Miracle’s.

“He had a premonition!” Jack blurts out. Dean blinks. He’s caught between looking from Sam to Jack, positive this is a dream.

“Why?” isn’t the first question that crosses Dean’s mind, but it is the first one he allows himself to ask. Sam shakes his head, finally meeting Dean’s gaze.

“I don’t know.”

“Why?” Dean repeats, forcefully. Sam raises his voice, too.

“I don’t know!” He’s just as lost as his brother. There’s also a note of fear in his voice, borne of dread and confusion. They’d gotten past this. Yellow Eyes was dead. Sam doesn’t need to have creepy, psychic visions anymore. 

“Are you ok?” Dean asks, searching his brother for anything. If memory serves, and that’s a big if considering it was maybe sixteen years ago, these demonic premonitions were accompanied by the monstrous mother of all migraines. Sam nods his head pathetically.

“I thought this was over,” He laments, taking a swig of Dean’s beer. It remains in Sam’s tight grip, not returning to Dean’s side of the table. Jack’s not old enough to notice the signs and read them as adeptly, but Dean understands them perfectly. Sammy’s absolutely terrified. “This was the second one I’ve had, and-”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the first?” Dean demands, too angry to care that he probably just stopped his brother from saying something useful. Screw whatever he saw, Sam’s safety is more important. 

“You were out, dude,” Sam fires back. Thinking about Dean seems to ease his fear, if only slightly. He smiles but it can’t reach his eyes. “I tried, but you were practically dead. It’s been a day, Dean.” Dean recoils in his seat, taking it all in. He always woke up when Sam was in the room. Secretly, he takes pride in that- it’s one of the first survival skills he’d taught himself. But if he did sleep for an entire day, that would explain how hungry he was. And why the door was open- Sam would’ve checked on him from time to time. 

*What’s happening* Dean wants to shout at the air, looking at the concrete ceiling. Miracle waits by his legs, confident someone would eat soon. 

“Tell him what you told me,” Jack prompts again, voice firmer. They have a small grin on their face, confidence shining through. Dean can’t look for too long. It’s the spitting image of Castiel’s shit-eating, cocky grin. Sam can stomach it, not as bothered by Cas’ death, and warily meets his kid’s eyes before sighing and finally spitting it out.

“I saw Azazel, but he was surrounded by this…. Force, that wasn’t evil, but it was angry. And then I watched him get eaten alive.” Sam glances at Dean, taking his brother’s shocked silence as motivation to continue. “And then, last night, I saw Metatron.” Dean tenses at the name, flexing his fists a few times. “It was the same. The Force, getting eaten alive. But then I saw-” Dean raises an eyebrow, and Jack beams. “I saw Cas.”

The room’s silent. Each person sits alone, processing something different. Jack is positively electric, this news inspiring their seemingly endless hope. Sam’s exhausted, a few different kinds of fear and dread all weighing on his shoulders. Dean feels…. He’s not sure there’s a word for it. Excitement at Cas’ name. Concern for his brother’s visions. Dread, knowing Cas is wherever a prince of hell and the scribe of god were eaten alive. Relaxed, in his family’s presence. Guilty, over Amara’s words. Guilty, over his failure to stop Chuck sooner. Guilty, over Cas’ death. Guilty, because he couldn’t protect Sam from having premonitions again. Guilty that he couldn’t even stomach a beer. Guilty, because he’d let his father down. Guilty guilty guilty guilty guilty.

Guilty, because Miracle licks his knee now, desperate for attention. There’s something Dean could fix. With all the gusto he can summon, so none at all, he stands up from his seat and hunts for anything to feed to her. The bunker doesn’t have dog food, but surely there’s gotta be something he could share. Finally he settles on a can of something (chicken? There’s a cartoon bird on the side), cracking it open and shoving some into a bowl. Miracle yips happily, devouring breakfast. Dean envies her liveliness, blissfully ignorant about all the loss in the world. Time marchs by, each Winchester finding something to occupy their time. Sam attempts to sleep again, after promising to tell Dean if he has another vision. Jack, at Dean’s suggestion, began researching whatever “angry force” Sam dreamt of. Dean honestly tries to help but, after a few hours, finds nothing. He wanders the bunker’s spacious halls, painfully aware how they’re supposed to be full. Sometimes he can even feel it. They’re not ghosts or spirits, but the haunting energy of former Men of Letters drifts across the halls. Dean can picture it when he closes his eyes, music coming from the war room, smells wafting from the spell rooms, laughter and footsteps as supernatural academics roam the halls. It’s all empty now: the rooms, the hallways, the caverns. They used to be full, not too long ago. But then Michael slaughtered the other world hunters, nearly taking Rowena and Cas too. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference- they’re both dead now. A chill creeps down Dean’s back and he stops short, realizing where he’d wandered.

He stands alone in the dungeon, in the center of the devil’s trap. Dean’s staring at the exact spot where the Empty had torn through the fortified walls to rip Cas from his arms. He rolls his shoulders, aware of the growing, aching soreness that plagues his handprint scar whenever he lingeres here. It’s much. He’s not much.

\--  
A month painfully passes. Dean’s not sure he can recognise the passage of time anymore. The sun rises. He might see Jack in the library, or maybe outside playing with Miracle. The sun sets. Sam takes Jack’s place, his nightowl tendencies honed by years of undergrad studying. It takes effort, but Dean forces himself to interact with them. He goes on long walks with Jack, listening to the kid excitedly fill him in on Star Wars lore while Miracle follows, panting happily. He notices Jack avoiding the produce isle at the grocery store, complaining when Sam fills a cart with healthy food. Occasionally, when the same nightmare of Cas in the Empty won’t leave him, Dean will find Jack in the kitchen, helping themself to Sam’s favoirte cereal. He’s already promised to not tell Sam, no matter how frustrated the guy looks. There aren’t many hunts, but Dean leaps at all of them. Sam and Jack let him go on them alone, always promising to be there if he needs help. Dean never does. 

There’s a sick kind of satisfaction he gets, being alone. He hates it, but that itself is comforting. With a job on his mind, he can finally push back thoughts of Cas. They’re still there, the empty backseat of Baby saying more than the angel ever could. But for a moment he can forget it all, gun in hand, sliding back into the role he’d always fit into. Hunting was his life. It’s a terrible, thankless, painful life, but it’s his. 

He comes back every time. Sam and Jack try to hide it, but Dean notices they were worried. The next day he attempts to make it up to them, watching a movie with Sam or taking Jack for a drive. And if he really tries, Dean can pretend he doesn’t feel dead.

\--  
Jody’s call couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Sam’s premonitions had ended just as quickly as they’d restarted, Jack was running out of books to scour, and Dean’s wandering was getting out of hand. Miracle spends time with each of them, offering whatever moral support a tired puppy could. But when Sam’s phone rings, the four gather in record time, desperate for a distraction.

“Hey Jody! You’re on speaker,” Sam warns, voice warm. It’s hard not to smile around Jody. 

“Good. The more help we can get, the better,” she mutters, clearly busy doing something with her hands. After some commotion on the other end, Jody’s voice comes back clearer. “Something weird happened last month, and then again last night.”

“Tell me about it.” He’s intrigued and worried, shooting Dean a quick look. Jody’s one of the most capable hunters in the country, and with Donna and the girls by her side she’s downright unstoppable. Weird, in her book, usually means the Winchesters are in for a once in a lifetime hunt. 

“Claire, Kaia, and Patience all had visions.” Sam, Jack, and Dean all share a confused breath. Patience having a vision isn’t newsworthy- the granddaughter of Missouri Mosely is a gifted psychic. In another way, it’s not too scary if Kaia has one either: she’s a dreamwalker, so it made sense for her to… dreamwalk. But the two having visions on the same night? And Claire too? Suspicious. 

“Do you know what they saw?” Jack asks, getting their bearings first. A small pang of pride flutters in Sam’s chest. The kid’s a natural born hunter, with sharp instincts and a keen eye, even without their Nephilim powers. 

“Yeah. It’s about Castiel. Where is he?” Jody asks, concern bleeding from her voice. Dean swallows hard, not ready to say it outloud. He came to terms with his best friend’s death a long time ago, but it still hurts. For some stupid reason, it only throbbed worse after they’d defeated Chuck. Dean had never missed him more than right now, when the war was over and he barely went hunting anymore.

“He’s gone, Jody,” Sam answers. The loss is clear in his voice, too. Dean’s so caught up in his own grief, it’s easily to forget about his family’s. No one else saw Cas in his last moments, the determined glint in his eye, the soft smile. Sam and Jack only heard about it afterwards, days later. 

“Then Claire was right,” Jody states, ominously. There’s more rustling on her end of the phone, before some distant shouting, and Jody’s voice comes through again. “We’re headed to you. Text Donna the directions?” Despite her tone, the Winchesters know it’s an order. Before anyone can ask why, and what the apparent rush is on her end, Jody speaks again. 

“We’re gonna save Castiel.”  
\--

The girls stayed for a week. Sam calls in every favor the family (both Winchester and Campbell) ever had, and hands out a few, while Jack reads up on the plan. It’s insane. Stupid. Futile. 

Dean likes those odds.

Over the course of the week, they’d learned a few things. Hunters around the country are scrambling, because defeating God apparently had repercussions. But that isn’t the most worrying thing.. When Castiel sacrificed himself, The Empty grabbed Billie, too. There aren’t any reapers left (The Empty had slaughtered them all trying to get Billie’s attention), meaning Death is short handed. She also isn’t on this mortal plane. Kevin’s ghost (accompanied by his very alive, very angry, very terrifying mother) stops by to warn them. Eileen also arrives, adamant to stay for the whole spell. Garth shows up the same time Rowena’s summoned. The Banes Twins also come, unannounced but very welcome. Otherworld Charlie couldn’t make it, but she does offer some encouraging words over the phone. Donatello also calls, leaving a long, vaguely threatening voicemail. The Bunker’s in constant motion. At almost all times, someone is awake and walking around, working on the spell. There’s just too much to do, and not enough time to do it. All of them are painfully aware of that, but too determined to care. This would work. It has to.

There’s no actual way for The Empty to enter the world of God’s creation. It has to be summoned, and even then, it only stays for as long as necessary. There’re very few things that could summon pure void. The final resting spot of angels and demons isn’t sedintary, though. Jack’s death, and Castiel’s deal, had been enticing enough. It wants a dead celestial. And by god, the Winchesters are going to give it one.

\--

Max Banes isn’t as proficient as his sister when it comes to spellwork, but he’s good enough to teach Sam.

“It’s almost like chemistry,” he explains, carefully weighing a few ingredients. “There’s magical value in things. That value changes depending on what it is, but a smart witch can manipulate it enough to get what he wants.” Sam’s still confused, but wisely decides not to press his luck. He does as he’s told, finding and mixing magical items even the Men of Letters found mysterious. 

The plan to build a dead, fake celestial is 100% homebrewed, untested, and risky. Putting said dead, fake celestial in Dean is even more so. Sam checks Rowena’s list again, trying to silence the voice in the back of his head screaming that this is a trap.

Virgin bone (male, preferably)  
Angel feathers (1 kg)  
Nephilim feather (33 cm)  
The hairs of two lovers  
Blood from someone who’s been to hell (1 liter)  
Baby’s laughter  
Stone not of Earth  
Salt from the Dead Sea (7 mg)  
Fruit from the Tree of Life  
613 pomegranate seeds, roasted in holy oil  
Cypress wood bowl  
13 oz Yarrow root (ground, not chopped)  
A mother’s memory

Quite a few of the ingredients are already lying around. The bone, feathers, stone, salt, fruit, seeds, oil, and yarrow are easy enough to find. Jack offers one of their own feathers, stumbling around and rolling their shoulders for a few hours after it’s plucked. Claire and Kaia begrudgingly give up some hair. Linda Tran has more than a few memories ready for the taking, and Sam doesn’t have to give up too much blood. Garth supplies the baby’s laughter after a few days, leaving a closed, labeled jar in the war room. That’s their impromptu lab: the war room. Miracle’s been locked out of it (she keeps gnawing on the virgin’s bone), but is easily pacified, so long as someone else sits outside with her. More often than not, it’s Dean, absentmindedly scratching behind her ears, lost in thought. He sits in the hallway for hours, perfectly quiet. Sometimes he gets company. Most often they ask hollow questions, and Dean politely shoos them away. He’s fine, really. Going through the motions on autopilot is fine. It gives him a good cover for missing Cas. The closer they are to getting him back, the more Dean worries. 

The last thing Castiel said was “I love you.” It made no sense. Of course Cas loved him. He loved Cas right back. He wished they had more time. But as soon as he’d said it, Cas was gone, taken by that stupid ooze into god knows where. He saved Dean’s life. For the next few hours after that, Dean cried, alone in the dungeon. Cas sacrificed himself and for what. The walls were cold and the room was dark. Wherever Cas was, it would be colder and darker. Dean didn’t want to think about it, but how could he not? Cas said the one thing he wants is something he knows he can’t have. Did he not know that he had Dean, forever and always? That even at their lowest, Dean would move heaven and earth to find him? To keep him safe? Doesn’t matter now. Cas is gone.

“Heya, Dean,” Donna’s voice whispers. She has that knowing, warm smile on her face that Dean instinctively tries to hide from. Looking around, the hallway’s mostly empty: just Dean, Donna, and Miracle. He realizes Miracle moved, pressing up against his side, sleeping soundly. In his unguarded grief, Dean’s eyes brim with tears. Silently, he curses himself for being so emotional. “What’cha thinking about?” Donna asks, sitting next to him. Miracle hears her now, waking up and trotting over. Still smiling, Donna scratches Miracle’s eager face. 

Briefly, Dean considers lying. He’s been doing it for so long now- since Cas left, since Dad left, since he was born. But something about Donna and Miracle, or maybe the still, indifferent air of the hallway, makes him reconsider. Donna’s nice. She’s a skilled hunter, a great friend, and the only thing keeping Jody going sometimes. Her kindness is an active decision, made every morning. She choses to overcome the hate and evil in the world with a bright grin and goofy jokes. Jack does the same, but their choice is more naive. Age isn’t wearing Donna down, but it certainly does show in her hunched shoulders and deep frown lines. Sighing, Dean makes his decision. He can’t lie to her.

“I miss Cas,” he finally confesses. He hasn’t actually told anyone yet. The words tumble out of his mouth. “He left me and I miss him so much. He’s all I can think about anymore.” Donna hums in acknowledgement. “The last thing he said, uh. The last things he said to me were about my dad. And then he said ‘I love you’ and left, like the stupid bastard that he is.” Donna laughs.

“Love sucks.”

“Love sucks,” Dean agrees, letting a few tears fall. Instinctively, he wipes them away, staring at the ceiling. 

“Why don’t you tell him that when we get him back?” Donna nudges. The spell’s almost ready. They’ll need about half a day (for the seeds to cool down) and Dean. He shakes his head.

“I can’t. I’ve never been able to tell him.” Dean refutes, waving his hands uselessly. He continues to vent, feeling safe in the solitude of the metal bunker. “We’ve been together for so long, now. Over ten years, but I couldn’t tell him. Even when I lost him, I couldn’t say it. Not in purgatory, not in heaven, never. I wanted to, but last time-” Dean pauses. The memories are too much. Last time he let himself love someone else completely, it was a disaster. Lisa and Ben, who’d done absolutely nothing but love him back, were kidnapped, tortured, possessed, almost killed, because of him. He can’t let that happen again. Especially not to Castiel, who’d already been abused and beaten because of his devotion to Sam and Dean. He won’t put Cas through any more pain. He refuses. “But love sucks.”

“Sounds like you’ve really been through it,” Donna observes. “You know, love is a lot like life. Of course there’s risks, and pain, and jerks named Doug, but there’s also a lotta good stuff.” She smiles, thinking about some memory Dean wishes he could experience with her. “I never realized how good my life was until it was over. When Doug left me, I didn’t think I could feel happy again. But when I met Jody, things changed. She wasn’t happy, but she was working on it. Together, we worked on it. And now look at me.” Donna smirks. “Can I tell you a secret?” Dean nods. “I’m gonna propose tonight.” Her voice is downright giddy now. Miracle picks up on the hunter’s energy, thumping her tail against the ground. Dean laughs. 

“I’m happy for you, man.” And for the first time in months, it’s not a lie.

“Guess I came at just the right time, then!” A chill crawls down Dean’s spine. He and Donna draw their guns, looking around the hallway. They’re alone, save for Miracle. 

So where had Gabriel’s voice come from?

“Show yourself you son of a bitch!” Dean taunts, echoes reverberating down the corridors. Both hunters are standing now, back to back, waiting. This isn’t the first time they’d gone up against something invisible.

“Booooring,” Gabriel taunts back. Dean and Donna look down just in time to see what had been Miracle shift into the archangel. Lying on his back, hands up in a simple surrender, with that signature shiteating grin, he keeps talking. “Who’s the lady?”

“Sheriff Hanscum,” Donna introduces, pointing her gun at him. “And you are?”

“I go by many names,” Gabriel smirks, getting to his feet. “The trickster, Loki, Gabriel….” he trails off, letting the implications sink in. Donna shoots Dean an incredulous look. He only shrugs. She turns back at the archangel, sizing him up. He pointedly ignores her. “Anyhoo, I saw dear ol’ Dad was offin’ folks so I hid in the mountains for a little bit. Figured you and that gigantour brother of yours were behind it all. But now I need to find Castiel. Where is he?” Dean’s grip tightens on his pistol at Cas’ name. He swallows hard.

“A little short for an archangel, arent’cha?” Gabriel frowns at the comment, but Donna continues. “You’re the one who shook the Prophet Mohammed? In that weak little body? I’m supposed to believe you’re the one who killed Baldur?” Donna lowers her gun. “You couldn’t even get into tha bunker without pretendin’ to be a neutered dog.” The archangel’s face darkens, and he strides towards Donna.

“Listen, you pathetic, whining ape-”

“No, you listen here, Boyo,” Donna’s voice is filled with malice. “Want our help? We’re more than happy to. But first, you’re gonna help us.” She grabs him by the arm, turns quickly on her heel and marches back towards the war room. “C’mon Dean!” she calls, before disappearing out of sight.

\--

The bunker has air controls, but that doesn’t stop nights from being cold. Dean supposes it’s something about the walls being coated in metal a few times over, or maybe the magic protections are warding out heat. Either way, it’s not important. Tonight’s warmer than usual, since the whole group (including Miracle) all gather in the library. There’re plenty of beers to go around (hexxed by Alicia so no one under 17 years old could open them), and Sam called in pizza several hours ago. Gabriel, although arriving on hostile terms, elects to stay for the “great company.” Dean rolls his eyes, but secretly is happy. Just because he doesn’t have the love of his life anymore doesn’t mean he should stop anyone else from a good time. Even Kevin joins in the fun, trading a few hunting stories here and there. Jody, Garth, and Linda get along famously. Dean hangs around Donna, periodically sipping from the same beer. He knows his secrets are safe with her, but that doesn’t stop him from hovering. Donna doesn’t seem to mind. She even elbows Dean when Claire and Kaia sneak off from the party, finally acting their age and being reckless teenagers. Patience, Eileen, Max, Alicia, and Alex are deep in a conversation about politics or something (Dean’s not paying attention). Miracle happily mills about, stealing a pizza slice when she thinks no one’s looking. Earlier that day, Dean found her in his room, sound asleep on the bed. Gabriel is a dick, but he didn’t harm a single hair on her fluffy head. Around ten pm Donna whisks Dean off to a neastingly dusty part of the library. 

“Can you get Claire and Kaia?” she asks, shaking out her hands. Her eyes dart around nervously, and she barely raises her voice above a whisper. “And wish me luck?” Dean nods, not even trying to hide the smile on his face. 

“You got this,” he whispers back, squeezing her shoulder. Donna takes a deep breath and then looks him dead in the eyes. She’s ready. 

Claire and Kaia haven’t gotten very far when Dean knocks on the door. He suspects they’re only making out, but who was he to get in the way of teen love? So he pounds against the door, giving the girls plenty of time to put any clothes back on and strike a pose that didn’t scream “we were just making out.” 

“Donna wants you back in the library. Now,” he adds, wondering if they’d miss the fun. He assumes she won’t pop the question before they get back, but nerves are a tricky thing. Donna is certainly braver than Dean is. She found the courage to ask out her beloved, to make her stay before some black, primordial, ooze monster took her before her very eyes-

“Sheesh, we’re on our way,” Claire loudly complains. He doesn’t hear Kaia say anything. Maybe she’s pretending she’s not even there. Dean has certainly pulled that trick a few times, holding his breath and remaining as still as possible under different girls’ beds, praying for their parents to leave the room. 

They get back just in time. Conversations lull, and Donna seizes the moment to grab everyone’s attention by clearing her throat. She’s already made her way to Jody, who stares at her with a surprised, fond look.

“Jody Mills,” Donna starts, taking her girlfriend’s hands into her own. “Ever since I first met you, my life changed.” She laughs at that, as does Sam. Being told that vampires are real and then being attacked by them is certainly a life changing event. His hands are dancing, sloppily translating Donna’s speech for Eileen. “I can’t say it’s all been for the better, but I do know that I’m better, because of you.” Her voice wavers, and her hands tremble, but Donna still bends down on one knee. Several party goers gasp. “Jodio, would you make me the happiest woman alive, and marry me?” The room is still, waiting for Jody’s answer. She smiles, blinks a few times, and then nods.

“Yes, I will.” She pulls Donna up off the ground and into a warm kiss, as the library cheers. Claire, ever the opportunist, demands they all celebrate. A few more rounds of beer are scrounged up (breaking into Dean’s Not So Secret Stash) and the party continues well into the night. Hours later, people start to depart for bed. Donna and Jody are first, although no one thinks they’re going to sleep. Rowena and Gabe abscond with Sam and Eileen, all opting to share one room that night (Dean pushes thoughts of his brother’s past, failed hookups out of his mind). The twins leave at the same time as the Trans. Kevin and Linda are staying for the ritual tomorrow, but then Linda has a business meeting to get to. The rest of the girls (and Jack) eventually sneak out, leaving just Dean, Garth, and Miracle to clean up.

“You’re nervous,” Garth comments. He doesn’t look up from the sink, just continues cleaning plates. Dean doesn’t say anything in response. Whatever he’s feeling isn’t Garth’s business. “I can hear your heartbeat,” Garth cooes. “You’ve been nervous all week. Have you thought about what you’re gonna say?” Dean sets down the extra slices of pizza he was putting away. Of course he thinks about it. All he could do is think about Cas. About finally seeing him again, or reaching out to him, or just being near him. His mind is still filled with Cas’ last words. They play over and over in his head when he tries to sleep. But Garth’s right. None of that is thinking about what he’ll actually say to Castiel. 

“Just try and think about it,” Garth says, putting the last plate on the drying rack before leaving. 

\--

Dean can’t sleep that night. He certainly tries, but his traitorous body is too restless and jittery. After decades of fighting monsters and hunting, seeing one man makes him *jittery*. Pathetic. Around six in the morning, he gives up on the hope of sleeping, and starts to wander the bunker. The ritual will happen in the dungeon, where Cas was last on Earth. As long as he avoids that room, Dean’ll be fine. He lingers in the kitchen, feeding Miracle some cold, next-day pizza and collecting his thoughts over coffee. Aimlessly he peruses the library shelves, finding a truly astonishing amount of research on subjects no one cares about. Shameful as it is, when others start waking up, Dean evades them, pacing in unused storage rooms. Eventually he makes his debut, lying about his insomniac activities with a big, fake smile. 

Apparently everyone has something to tell Dean before the ritual. He hasn’t helped assemble the ingredients, but if he’s going to house a half dead, half real, completely fake celestial, someone has to paint his body in enochian sigils. Dean volunteers, foolishly thinking he’ll get time alone.

Rowena’s first. She offers to help get the ones on his back.

“If you see my Fergus, would you tell him….” she trails off, deftly moving the brush along the nape of Dean’s neck. “Tell him I’m proud of him?” Dean nods. Rowena smacks the side of his arm. “Aye! Don’t move, you’ll mess up my spellwork,” she scolds. As quickly as she arrived, she left, having only painted one sigil. 

Dean has barely picked the brush back up when Kaia knocks on the door. 

“Uh,” Dean panicks. “I’m not wearing a shirt?” He calls out. Kaia snorts, walking in. 

“You’re not my type,” she excuses. He better not be, Dean retorts, disgusted with their age difference and thinking about how angry Claire would be. Kaia sits on Dean’s bed, shifting her feet idly. “Where you’re going… it’s not good. I couldn’t see much, but what I saw was scary.” She shudders at the memory. As cool as dreamwalking could be, Kaia’s apparently cursed to only dreamwalk to nightmarish otherworlds.

“Not the first nightmare I've been through,” Dean reassures her. Hes not lying, either. He’d survived Zachariah sending him to the post-apocalypse, the apocalypse world Jack accidentally opened, and the place Kaia used to dream of. If he could make it through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, he could do this. Kaia nods and leaves.

Patience follows soon after, when Dean has maybe four sigils on his arm. At this rate, it’ll take all morning to prepare the ritual, and by then the spell will be less potent. She only stands in the doorway (Kaia must’ve left it open) and waits.

“I saw you there.” Her voice is sharp as ever. Dean sighs. This means the spell would at least get him there, right? “But I also saw that *thing* there, too. The one that eats people alive.”

“I’ll be careful,” Dean responds. The sigils Rowena wrote out for him are complicated, and he’s already being careful not to screw any of them up. By the time he finally finishs the one on his palm, Patience is squinting at him. “I promise!” Dean adds, unsure of what she wants. He can’t know how much danger he’ll be in until he gets there. Patience sighs and leaves, muttering something about getting breakfast.

Jody’s next. The ring on her finger is almost blinding in the harsh, bunker lights, but she flaunts it anyways. She wears the same grin as last night. Not even asking permission, she waltzs into the room, picking up a brush and begins painting on his shoulder blade. 

“You ready?” She asks. Dean nods, this time not worried about messing up any paint. “Dean Winchester don’t you lie to me,” she warns. “We’ll get him back.” For a moment, silence hangs in the air as Dean tries to believe her. Cas once told him that good things happen. ‘Not in my experience’ was his response. He didn’t believe Cas’ words then, and he certainly doesn’t believe Cas’ words now. “We could always do this tomorrow, if you need some time,” she offers. Dean shakes his head. No, he has to do this today. He can’t wait any longer. Cas can’t wait any longer. “Alright,” she mutters, painting another sigil and then leaving. 

Kevin comes in a few minutes later, not even bothering with the door. He simply appears on the other side. Stupid ghost powers. Dean doesn’t look up. At this point, he’s conceded people will be coming in and out all morning, ogling the grieving man like he’s an animal in a zoo. Come to think of it, he almost was. Back when the Mark of Cain possessed Dean, Cuthbert Sinclair wanted to use him, valuing his worth as a rare item and weapon more than a hunter. Sam saved him, but that hadn’t stopped Dean from uttering a hushed, desperate prayer to Cas.

There’s also the other reason Dean can’t look at Kevin. Despite being a ghost, Kevin’s pretty good at being visible. Sure, Dean sees him whenever they’re in the same room, but Dean can’t really *look* at him. Not in the eyes. There’s too much guilt, too many regrets. Every time Dean sees Kevin, he remembers watching the kid die at Gadreel’s hands. Before that, Kevin was functionally dead, spending all his time in Garth’s safe houseboat or the bunker. He never went outside, barely slept, and didn’t talk to anyone outside of when Crowley tortured him, or when the Winchesters remembered to check in. Dean doesn’t know which is worse.

“Don’t tell me you’re pretending I’m not here,” Kevin complains. Despite himself, Dean smirks. Not even death can take away the kid’s angel-blade sharp wit. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out. It’s all he can think of. “We’ll find a way to fix you. I promise.” Kevin shakes his head. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’m not happy now, but I’m better. I just wanted to wish you luck before you left.” Dean nods, barely managing to scrape out a “thank you” before the kid flickers and disappears. 

He has about ten blissful minutes alone before being interrupted again. This time Jack and Miracle are at his door. Dean welcomes them in, worried when Miracle tries to lick where recently painted symbols lay on his arm. Jack shooes her away, before looking back at Dean. 

Their voice is haunted. Dean remembers they’ve been to the Empty. They have to have some idea of whatever hell Cas is experiencing. But when Jack got there, Billie helped them escape. Dean’s sure Billie wouldn’t be doing Cas the same favor, even if she still had her powers. Her powers: something Dean deprived her of by striking death with her own scythe. Once again, his bloodlust ruined the day.

“He’s there because of me. He died so I could-” Jack’s voice catches. Dean turns, sees the kid’s small body hunched in on itself on his bed, and stops painting. He makes his way over to Jack’s side, sitting next to them.

“I know,” Dean says. His voice is equally haunted, equally hollow. It’s true: he knows. He knows the sacrifice Cas made. He knows Cas didn’t tell him for at least a year, and planned to keep that secret forever. And most damningly, he knows what Jack is feeling. Memories of that hospital room float in his mind. Tessa trying to reap him, Yellow Eyes possessing her, John’s final words: 

“Don’t tell Sam. Look out for your brother. Save him, and if you can’t- kill him.”

The stupid orders rattled in his mind for a few months before Dean inevitably broke the promise. And then Sam disappeared to Indiana. The whole drive there, six and a half painful hours, Dean was thinking about John’s loathsome words. Don’t tell Sam. Dean told Sam. Don’t tell Sam. Sam ran off. Don’t tell Sam. Sam’s vulnerable now. Don’t tell Sam. 

It was his father’s dying fucking wish and Dean couldn’t do it. He wasn’t good enough- he was never good enough. Dully, his wrist hurts. Dean ignores the pain, realizing a silence had settled over the room, only broken by Jack’s unsteady breathing.

“A long time ago, my dad died, too. And the worst part was, he traded his life for mine.” Jack looks up, blue eyes tinged green at the edges. Dean noticed that Jack’s powers were connected to their emotions a while ago, but he hasn’t seen it up close and personal until this month. With no looming threats in the way, Dean could watch his kid more. He remembers seeing Cas do the same thing, a fond look in his eye as Jack thumbed through Men of Letter tomes. Dean’s aware he’s taking Castiel’s place. He’s a substitute, and poor one at that. It took maybe a week for him to figure out Jack’s schedule, and then even more time to settle into it. He only noticed how Jack’s eyes change with their emotions recently. The golden hue their power manifested with sometimes danced along the edges of their eyes, transforming their light blue iris into a cheery shade of green. Right now, they’re holding back. Some powerful thing is building inside of them, but they won’t let it out around Dean. Despite their eyes shining in the light, not a single tear falls.

“I didn’t know that,” Jack mutters, looking at their hands. Dean nods, mostly to himself.

“I don’t really like to talk about it. Still hurts, after all these years. And for so long, I wondered how he could do it. My father was a lot of things, but suicidal ain’t one of them.” Jack hums something of agreement. Cas was a lot of things, but suicidal wasn’t one of them. “What really sucked was that he didn’t tell us anything. He told me to take care of my family, and then left.” Dean’s hand reaches over to Jack’s shoulder. Even under a few layers, he can feel the kid’s stress. Their shoulders are hunched and tight, but they lean into the touch. 

“It’s not fair,” Jack finally admits, resting against Dean. The hunter laces his hands through the kid’s hair, marveling at how soft it is. After all the shit they’ve been through, it’s hard to remember that Jack is just a kid, still somehow soft and optimistic. Dean wants to protect that, protect them, so badly. It’s a weight in his chest he’s all too familiar with: he’s felt it for Sam his whole life. 

“No it’s not,” Dean admits. “But it’s love.” Jack narrows their eyes. “It hurts to be left alone. My dad did so much for me, and when he was gone it felt like he’d taken some of me with him.” Jack nods. “I wondered for so long how someone could do that. But then-” Dean pauses, unsure how to say what he’s thinking.

But then Sam died. His final steps, just like his first, were towards Dean. The whole charade was over. Sam was one of Azazel’s chosen few, but he didn’t make the cut. All the premonitions, powers, and pain were done with. Dean did his best to look out for Sam, to save him, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t even the one to kill him. Somehow, Dean had failed every order Dad had given him. Don’t tell Sam. Look out for your brother. Save him, and if you can’t- kill him. But he still had one option left.

Pride calls himself the original sin. Of course he does, he’s Pride. On this weird string of loosely connected tragedies Dean calls his life, he’d met the guy. Despite all his grand talk, he died just as easily as any other demon. So did Dean. He was a damn good hunter, but for all his skill and training, he’d been killed by a hellhound. For all his talk and posturing, Dean died just like all the other bastards stupid enough to sell their souls. But he wasn’t prideful. No, his vice of choice was selfishness. It’s a strange paradox: Dean wants nothing for himself, but he’s the most selfish man on the planet. Sam died many times, but the shock and terror of his first death still weighs on the older brother’s shoulders. It keeps him up at night, replays in nightmares, and renews Dean’s determination to keep Sam safe. He would, and has, given everything to his brother. And yet he’s still stubbornly selfish.

Because Dean can live without Sam. It’s the ugly truth he doesn’t want to admit. By some miracle he knows he shouldn’t attribute to heaven, he’d managed to carve out an apple-pie life with Lisa and Ben for a year. He could live without his brother, but he choses not to. Dean decides, every time, to return to this crappy life, doing whatever he has to to keep Sam alive and healthy. It’s selfish, and he knows it. Dean’s the one who always brings Sam back, his own codependency forcing Sam into his current position. Keeping his family together is the one thing he wants. 

Cas, somehow, out did him. The guy didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and didn’t ask for much. He was an angel, devoted and heavenly. Cas spent his time with Jack, or with nature, or with the other Winchesters, and that was enough. He was a hunter, reluctantly learning how to use guns just as well as his own angel blade. A long time ago he’d been prideful, but half a dozen deaths and indescribable torture forced that out of him. When the Empty attacked heaven, he pacified it with his own self sacrifice. But the fucker was still selfish. He still gave up his life, knowing the Winchesters would have to live without him. Even worse, he did it twice. Because when he died, he saved Jack and Dean. Cas finally admitted his selfish ways.

“The one thing I want is something I know I can never have.”

Dean finally finds the words, and continues. His fingers are still playing with Jack’s hair. It’s getting longer and longer. One of these days, Dean’s going to cut it. Maybe he’ll finally cut Sam’s hair, too. 

“I did the same thing. And it hurt everyone around me, but I stand by it. Because I did it for Sam, and I’d do it for you. You’re my family, and I love you.” On Jack’s other side, Miracle whines, suddenly aware she’s not the center of attention. Floppily, she trudges to where Jack is resting on their dad, breathing slowly. Dean can feel how hard they’re holding back tears. Their chest is tight, as if breathing is painful. It probably is.

“It should be me,” Jack sighs. They grab hold of Dean’s wrist, looking at the sigil painted there. With a yellow flash, a few more sigils appear, and Jack’s eyes turn fully golden before returning to that unmistakably Castiel shade of blue.

“No!” Dean shouts it before the words finish processing in his mind. He’s already lost Cas, he can’t lose Jack. “No,” Dean clears his throat, voice back to a normal volume. Jack’s eyes are looking up at Dean, and he tilts his head and damn it that’s *just* how Cas does it-

“You’re just a kid,” Dean whispers, closing his eyes. Jack’s hand is still around their father’s wrist, fingers wrapped in a lose grip. It’s the same tension Dean taught them to hold a weapon with. Did that make Dean the weapon? He’d been one all his life, why would Chuck’s absence change that?

“I’ve been there before. I’m strong” Jack protests. They huff a little, pouting with those baby cheeks. Dean opens his eyes closed. Jack’s not wrong: they are strong. Stronger than any other Winchester, stronger than any other angel, stronger than any other celestial being. Stronger than any child should have to be.

“That’s not the point,” Dean refutes, swallowing back his emotions. While it was easy for Dean to excuse Jack’s age when Chuck was a looming threat, this last month reinforced just how young the kid is. There’s a bright innocence behind their eyes that Dean remembers crushing in Sam. He sees it when Jack wants to play a board game as a family, draw in their room, or read with Sam. It’s the smallest moments, the ones Cas should be here for, that hurt the most. Jack discovered their favorite color (blue) and lost a tooth and decided they didn’t like carrots and a thousand other meaningless things that made them human. Castiel missed all of it.

“I can do it!” Jack protests.

“I don’t care. You are not going to the Empty and that is final.” Dean’s voice is firm and commanding. He has to stop himself before saying “that’s an order.” He has to stop himself before he becomes his dad. Miracle whines again, sensing the tension. She presses her cold, wet nose against Dean’s hand, sniffing the sigils before laying her head down on Jack. The kid looks away from Dean, instead focusing on the dog. Dean knows the move all too well. Sam used to do it, eyes full of hurt and anger, when he couldn’t hunt with John and Dean. He decides he doesn’t care. It’s safer this way, just like it was safer then. Of course, he doesn’t tell this to Jack, instead just letting the kid lean on him and pet Miracle. 

“What if you don’t come back?” Jack whispers. The question’s not directed at Dean, necessarily. They asked it to the air, to the room that would be vacant if Dean never came back, to the bed that would be cold, to the dog that wouldn’t get scraps of dinner, to the floor that wouldn’t be swept at night. They’re asking it to themself, wondering how they could move forward without Castiel or Dean. They’d have Sam, of course, and Eileen and Jody and everyone else who’d bothered to show up to the bunker this week. But that’s not the same, and Dean knows it. Loss isn’t the kind of wound you can placate with a bandaid. It’s a deep gash that bleeds every morning you wake up alone, and demands to be felt for the rest of your life. It’s a parasite that eats at your soul until it eventually takes you over, or you mestastazie it, turning your own pain into something that can hurt others. It’s nasty, and not something a kid should have to deal with.

“I’m coming back,” Dean answers. His voice has enough confidence to convince Jack. It’s the same voice he used when he told Bobby they’d beat Michael and Lucifer. Dean can fake confidence just enough to convince his family he’ll be fine. He’d honed it after years and years of being alone with Sammy. Jack squeezes Dean’s wrist. 

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now, are you gonna help me with these symbols or not?” Dean asks, reaching out to pet Miracle’s head. Jack rolls off the bed, grabbing the paint brush. For the first time in a while, they smile. It’s not one of those blinding, pure bliss smiles Dean saw on Donna last night. Jack’s smile is softer, the kind of mellow happiness a child his age should be feeling. For just a moment, Dean smiles too, feeling Jack’s celestial warmth. Turns out the kid’s quite a painter. Dean knows he should be worried, since this means they’ve been spending time with Rowena, but he pushes that thought aside. They get one of the ones Dean was worried about screwing up (apparently it had to be done in layers, and Rowena’s handwriting isn’t exactly legible) and set the brush down. 

“I think Sam needs some help in the war room,” they excuse, beginning to leave.

Dean barely has a second to himself between Jack and Donna. Miracle follows the Winchester, stopping momentarily to sniff the sheriff’s hand before running down the hallway. Donna beams at Dean. A weight’s been lifted off her chest since they last talked in the hallway. Not as bright as Jody’s, her ring still glares against the unnatural bunker lighting. 

“Need any help?” she asks, picking up the brush. Dean nods and points to his back, handing over the sheet of sigils Rowena made. “Well, I’m no art student,” she mutters, squinting at the sheet, “but I think I can do this.” Dean laughs.

“After last night? I think you can do anything.” She giggls in response, dragging the brush across his spine. “How’d you know all that stuff about Gabriel yesterday?” 

“A few months ago I got a strange call. A friend of mine, only a few miles outside of Hibbing, found some weird signs. I thought it was teenagers, you know, having a laugh. Turned out to be dwarven ruins. There’s not a lotta helpful sources about how to deal with Dwarves, and I had to find some experts.”

“Norse Gods?” Dean asks incredulously. How is this the first time he was hearing about this? “When were you gonna tell me you summoned a Norse God to deal with Gimli in Minnesota?”

“I didn’t summon a God,” she corrects. “I asked a different hunter to talk to some Skogkatts and they told me.” Donna leans over, dipping the brush in more “paint.” She also glances at Dean who looked puzzled. “Skogkatts! They’re a big, fluffy kinda’ cat. Frejya’s got two herself. We got quite a few up in the cabins. Nice fellows, those cats.”

“And the thing about the Prophet Muhhamed?”

“That’s not an interesting story. A friend of mine, sweet guy, is Muslim. He told me about it.” The buzzing of different machines throughout the bunker takes over the room. A gentle humming sound fills the silence between the two hunters. Dean shivers as the brush passes over a spot of particularly sensitive skin. He doesn’t like being exposed like this, vulnerable to the world, with all his scars showing. There are a few still healing, carving pink slashes through some of the sigils. 

“So, miss ‘love sucks.’ What made you want to get married again?” The question is personal, maybe a little invasive, and certainly tactless. Of course, those words also describe Dean. Donna stops painting, the brush skidding to a halt along his ribs. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” she says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Jods and I, we love each other. And I don’t want that to stop.” She resumes painting, wiping away some smudge with her thumb. Dean considers her response, trying to push memories of Cas out of his mind. There isn’t time for that. But the harder he tries to repress them, the more persistent they became. Just like Castiel. Donna finishes painting and then leaves, eager to see Jody again. 

Alex doesn’t stop by for long. She hangs around in the doorway, making Dean promise to come back. She disappears before Dean can see her. Alicia Banes is similarly brief, but at least she did brings another paint brush and a second bowl of “paint.” It smells awful, but Dean won’t ask what it’s made of. Rowena promised him the less he knew, the better. Mrs. Tran offers some words of encouragement. Dean represses the thought of how much healthier she appeared, having given up memories of her torture. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of Sam making food. The group would want to all meet for lunch, seeing each other one last time before the ritual. Dean takes the time to finally be alone. 

Thoughts of Cas are hard to push away when Dean’s with others, but they’re impossible to repress when he’s alone. There are just too many memories here. Everywhere Dean looks, he can see his angel. He looms just outside Dean’s field of vision, stretched out on the bed, or relaxing in the chair in the corner. Cas’ voice rings in his ears, almost as loud and terrifying as the first time Castiel “spoke” to him. 

“I love you.”

Deciding he hated being alone, Dean opens his phone and replays Donatello’s message. His voice was frantic. The prophet usually sputtered and stuttered when he had a vision. The phone’s audio couldn’t convey it, but Dean knoww the guy well enough to infer he’s probably ecstatic, collecting his notes while he trying to speak. It’d been a few days since Dean last replayed the message. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the words and not how much he misses Cas. The info is important. According to the prophet’s vision, there are a few thousand souls waiting to be taken. That much spectral energy won’t be a problem unless they don’t find a new Death in about a week. Donatello also saw a woman, in her mid thirties, with beautiful short hair and soft features that framed her stern appearance. Dean knows he meant Billie before the prophet explains she was the old Death. As the most recent reaper in the position, she’ll be the best person to take up the mantle again. The message ends abruptly, with the prophet explaining he has to get back to work grading papers. 

It’s hard to remember Donatello used to be a professor. Technically speaking, almost every hunter had a life before the supernatural world broke through, demanding to be dealt with. There are a few exceptions, namely the Banes Twins and the Winchesters. Dean wonders, not for the first time, what his life would be like without hunting. The djinn claimed he’d be a mechanic. Zachariah showed him a world where he was a salesman. He used to want to be a fireman. Sometimes Sam talks about retiring. He always sounds wistful, as if finishing his law degree was the plot of his favorite fantasy book. Dean rarely allows himself to dream like that. The last time he did, it was when Cas asked. 

“I love you.”

Cas’ words hang in the stale air. No one had said them. No one needed to. At first, Dean wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Of course he’d considered other men, but his Dad made his opinion on that more than clear. Absentmindedly, Dean massaged his wrist. It wasn’t broken anymore- hadn’t been for about twenty five years now. Yet he still felt that phantom sting, a cold reminder of what the world thinks about queers like him. But then so many things happened. John died. Dean met Ash. His wrist ached. They got drunk together and when they woke up in the same bed, there were no repercussions- just giddy morning sex and the scent of the Roadhouse’s storeroom. Then he met Castiel. Things were so much weirder. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little turned on when Cas first showed his wings, an intimidating display of God’s power stuffed into a strikingly beautiful tax accountant’s body. But there was too much going on. Cas worked with Heaven. He was an angel. Angels don’t feel.

Dean has never been so glad to be wrong. Castiel shoving him against the wall, a hand already over his mouth, just inches from the angel’s imploring, confident stare did so many things to Dean. When Cas, bless his innocent little heart, tried to comfort a prostitute, getting both him and Dean kicked out of Hell’s Angels (the irony went right over the actual angel’s head), Dean made good on his promise. He did not let his best friend die a virgin. Once again, he was waking up with another man in the same bed with no cosmic repercussions. He started to like the mornings after. What used to be a painful goodbye, sneaking out of a girl’s bathroom window without so much as a note, changed. Cas had one arm wrapped around Dean’s waist, his chest right up along Dean’s back. 

They didn’t start actually dating until a few months later. He wouldn’t admit it, but when Zachariah had him cornered, completely alone, promising all kinds of torture not even Alastair could dream up, he was terrified. But then Castiel saved him, once again gripping him tight and raising him from the threat of holy perdition. Dean couldn’t stop himself. In a moment of thoughtless passion, he grabbed the angel’s scruffy face and kissed him until his heart rate finally slowed. To his surprise, Cas reciprocated, one arm snaking around Dean’s waist. He pointedly ignored the phantom pain plaguing his wrist.

The next two years were hard to explain. Dean and Cas barely interacted, both having their own problems to deal with. And when Cas betrayed him, Dean couldn’t explain why it hurt so much. As much as that stung, losing Cas in that stupid resovour was worse. On top of that, he lost Bobby. If it weren’t for Sam and his pathetically doey eyes, always looking at Dean with an unabashed admiration only a younger sibling could foster, he would’ve ended it all. He wanted so many things, but Cas was always the first one in his mind. 

Being stuck in Purgatory with his, until very recently, clinically insane boyfriend after just wishing to see him again was not what Dean had imagined when people told him “careful what you wish for.” Even worse, said institutionalized man promptly left him *again*. Dean could take a hint. This one seemed to be a little forceful, and cruel, but he could read the signs. Cas left him so many times, he finally got the message: it was over. So Dean moved on, fending for himself. Benny came along, and Dean felt his phantom wrist pain again. He wasn’t sure if the ongoing nightmare that was being the only human in Purgatory- where every creature he’d ever fought (and many he hadn’t) could smell him from miles away and wanted to eat him alive- counted as the world punishing him for liking men. But he made do. Benny was a nice guy, and a gentle partner, yet something was off. John once said vampires mate for life. Back when he was alive, Benny had had a girlfriend, who he sometimes mentioned in passing. Dean and Benny knew they were each other’s sidepiece, but it wasn’t a problem until they finally found Castiel. On some level, it made sense that one of God’s warriors would be antagonistic to a monster, but that didn’t mean Cas’ bitching about Benny was any less infuriating. Then, after a long week when, if not for Cas’ ability to heal fatal wounds through just a simple touch, Dean would’ve died, Benny mentioned it. A blood bond. He wasn’t sure if the magic would work right with an angel, or in purgatory, with a vampire as the witness, but they were desperate. So the next night all three preformed the ritual, Cas’ grace mixing with Dean’s blood and Dean’s soul mixing with Castiel’s blood. He was feverish for a few days, but it worked. Their beings were connected now, stronger than ever. Dean could feel Cas’ life, his soft joy that emanated just from being near Dean. He wondered if Cas could feel it too. When they finally found the portal, Dean was relieved. Hell was worse, but he still loathed his time in Purgatory. All the hopes he stupidly built came crashing down when Cas didn’t make it. Alone in the real world, Dean cried. They were separated again. This time was worse. Their bond ached in the hunter’s chest. On a deep level he knew Cas was still alive, he could feel it in his bones, but that made their distance worse.

For the next seven years, they continued the estranged dance. One of them was always pulling away for some reason, some grander purpose in life. In between the strife, Cas’ few months as a human, Dean’s summer as a demon, the Mark of Cain’s homicidal influence, Lucifer's occupation of Castiel’s body, Ishim’s threat to murder Dean, Dean’s awful two months after Jack’s birth (made infinitely worse by the blood bond), Michael’s ear shattering screaming in Dean’s brain, and their journey back to Purgatory, there were quieter moments. Dean wipes a tear away, remembering all the slow nights when they’d stay up late watching old westerns. Sometimes they drank coffee together, just enjoying each other’s company. At night, after particularly stressful hunts, Cas would rail Dean into next week, whispering soft reassurances into his neck. 

They never said it. Dean didn’t have to ask, he just lead by example. No matter how much he yearned to say it, to whisper those three little words, he couldn’t. It was his curse. Winchesters couldn’t fall in love. Anyone they dared to say the words to would suffer. Dean made that mistake already, with Lisa, with Benny, with Charlie, with Mary, with Jack, with Bobby, with Sam. He couldn’t do it to Castiel. Every time he saw those singed wings, burned up in his fall from grace, or the lost look in his blue eyes, something Naomi tried to torture out of him, or the few scars that decorated his smooth skin, holdovers from his wars against Heaven, Raphael, Metatron, and now God, Dean remembered. He couldn’t say those words, no matter how badly he wanted to. 

John was wrong. Dean wished a broken wrist was all the world did against queers. But when he remembers Castiel’s face, serene and beautiful, crying as he finally broke that unspoken promise and whispered “I love you,” it’s not Dean’s wrist that ached.

“Knock knock.” Eileen’s voice is gentle, carrying across the room the way a pie’s scent dances along the wind. Dean jumps, suddenly no longer physically alone. The brush in his hand stalls, the sigil on his stomach only half done. He starts it up again, praying Eileen hasn’t seen him so depressed. She crosses the room, grabbing the second brush Alicia left. There aren’t any more symbols needed on his back, but she finds a spot on his arm that’s woefully baren. Dean feels like an art project, something the whole bunker was contributing to, with or without his say so. At least people don’t expect a canvas to talk about its feelings.

“There’s a protection amulet in the dungeon. Take it with you.” Dean doesn’t respond; he doesn’t need to. Eileen’s a master when it comes to reading body language, and from the simple hunch in his shoulders, heavier than usual, she can see he’s mentally somewhere else. He’ll do as she asked, since apparently he’s taking requests, but that doesn’t mean he has to look happy about it. As far as art projects go, he’s a pretty disappointing one. Finishing the sigil with a swish of the brush, tickling Dean’s sensitive skin, she smiles and leaves. 

Dean smells Gabriel before he sees the bastard. After his violent confrontation with Loki, the archangel wasn’t leaning as heavily into the Trickster persona he’d used for millennia. Even so, he still munches on candy, the sickly sweet scents announcing his presence in Dean’s room. The hunter rolls his eyes. This is getting ridiculous.

“What do you want,” he grumbles, refusing to look up. Maybe, if he finishes painting his body faster, he can avoid everyone he ever knew coming into his room and telling him something. 

“Just wanted to see how far along you are,” Gabriel cooes. He moves so that Dean os forced to see him, wearing the shirt Sam had on yesterday. Great. “Candy?” he offers, materializing a red lollipop in one hand. 

Dean glares in response. He’s not in the mood. Gabe rolls his eyes dramatically, unwrapping the candy and eating it himself. “You hunters are too distrusting,” he teases, mouth full. “I’m not trying to kill you *right now*.” Dean makes a show of checking Rowena’s sheet for the next symbol, ignoring the warrior of God in his room. “Fine! If you’re gonna be all business, I’ll get to the point,” Gabriel laments.

“I take it you’ve never been to the Empty before. Here’s some advice: it’s a bitch.” Dean pretends like he’s not listening, but his ears are burning. “It hurts on levels you don’t even know you have. And worst of all, it can shape shift. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll never get back out.”

“I don’t suppose you have a map?” Dean retorts, throat dry. Gabe snorts. 

“There is no map for the void. Besides, you’ve got everything you need. Right here,” he points to Dean’s arm, where a few sigils crowd around the hand shaped scar covering his shoulder. Dean pauses, confused. “You’re looking for Castiel in there. All you need is that little handy (ha!) soul branding to find him.”

“Wait- soul branding?” Dean asks. He hasn’t thought about the handprint scar too often, but he remembers getting it. It certainly didn’t feel like being branded. 

“Yeaaaah, dumbass. He basically committed blasphemy putting that thing on you. There’s a great, big, neon sign on the Michael Sword that says ‘if lost, return to Castiel.’” Gabe laughs. “Michael was pissed when he found out, too. You’re lucky you still have the thing.” Instinctively, Dean raises a hand over the mark, shielding it from any would-be archangels that want to remove it. Gabe snorts again, before disappearing. Outside Dean’s door, the trickster loudly startes to hit on Sam, until Dean finally closes his door.

Praying no one else would visit soon, he took off his pants, starting to paint the sigils that are meant for his thighs. Despite Chuck no longer having the power to ruin his life, the universe still doesn’t give Dean what he wants, as Max Banes knocked on the door not one minute after Dean closed it. 

“Uh, I’m not- don’t-” Dean tries to protest, but Max pushes in. He grabbes the brush Eileen left and exhales.

“You’re not the first guy I’ve painted,” he commentes, stepping close enough to steal Rowena’s sigil sheet and look at some of the designs. “Besides, you’re not my type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, half relieved and half offended.

“You’re too repressed for me. Maybe that angel you love digs it, but I find it boring.” Max responds casually, as if he were reading out the weather. Dean stands still, eyes widening in shock. He wants to respond, but every witty comeback that flies past his mind only proves Max’s point. Begrudgingly he admits defeat, letting the witch smear “paint” on his legs. 

They haven’t really talked since the Twins arrived. Dean was preoccupied, wallowing in self loathing alone, while the witches were pulled this way and that trying to get the spell together. Something had been bothering Dean since the two arrived, however, and he takes their moment alone to seize it.

“Your sister seems less… twiggy than the last time I saw her.” Dean decides his tactless approach with Donna was better than whatever he’d just tried with Max. The kid grips his brush harder, refusing to look anywhere specific.

“I did what I had to,” he mumbles in a voice Dean recognises. He’s used it far too many times himself. In a strange way, the Winchesters and Banes are the only people who could recognise that tone. Every hunter has their sob story about how they entered The Life, but being raised in it is completely different. There’s a forced codependency between hunter siblings, visible if you know what to look for. Sam and Dean noticed it immediately, the way the Twins linger in the same room, or always sit next to each other, or meet eyes every five minutes. The Winchesters did it themselves, never wanting to be in different rooms, or have someone between them, or not know what the other was thinking. Their souls are conjoined, linked in some metaphysical way that meant any separation was too much. He wonders if Sam felt as lonely and broken as Dean did when Sammy ran off to Stanford. Did he stay awake at night, painfully aware how quiet the room was without his brother’s breathing? Did Max?

“What’d it cost?” Dean asks. Visions of his own ill fated plans to save Sammy dance through his mind. Everything from the first time he killed someone to last month, when he seriously considered letting Sam kill him so Chuck would finally be satisfied. Max’s eyes are distant, and he breathes in deeply. Dean did the same when he told Bobby about his demon deal. Neither Max nor Dean would apologize for their actions, but admitting to them is still painful.

“What’s it to you?” Max sneers. Somewhere deep, Dean laughs. He'd have done the same thing. Hell, he still does the same thing. There’s no price too high for saving family. Of course, that philosophy gets everyone around him killed. Max is young, but the distant look in his eyes betrays something else. He knows the rules about life and death, the high toll hunting demands, and yet he wakes up every morning and kept moving. 

“I’m worried for you, kid. I’ve been where you are, and look at me now.” Max stops painting, sneer softening into a glare. There’s nothing more annoying than being lectured about family. However, it’s only annoying because Dean’s right. He’s a mess. He’s been attacked, killed, tortured, possessed, kidnapped, transformed, and unmade so many times that he lost count years ago. Max has heard enough stories about the Winchesters. The only reason they have stories worth telling is because they’re dangerously needy, and willing to sacrifice the world to save each other. Not exactly role model material.

“If the fae find out I’m alive, they’ll kill us both,” Max cryptically confesses. He paintes a few more symbols, leaving the more intimate sections of Dean’s thighs alone, before leaving. 

Thankfully, the paint dries in time for Dean to pull his pants back on before Claire arrives. She hangs around the door, arms crossed in a pout that screams teenage angst. As rough as she looks, Dean could only smile when he sees her. 

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hey,” she responds. They stare at each other for a moment, their last conversation hanging in the air. “You’re really gonna do it?” She asks, looking him up and down. He hasn’t seen himself in a mirror yet, but Dean’ss pretty sure he looks like a circus freak. 

“Unless you want to,” he offers with a playful smile. Claire laughs and shakes her head, walking into the room. She pulls Dean into a hug, pressing a shaky breath against his chest. Gently, he runs a hand through her hair, rocking her a few times. 

“Promise me you’ll come back,” she whispers. Dean doesn’t say anything, just hums some nonanswer and continues to play with her hair. Eventually, Claire pulles back, sniffling hard. She won’t look him in the eye.

“There’s some, uh, a few symbols left,” Dean fumble, passing her the sheet and a brush. “They go on my face.” Claire giggles, a wicked smile falling on her.

“And you trust me?” She teases, sitting on the bed. Dean smiles, a panic seizing his chest.

“I’m already a painted whore. Have at it.” He sits down too, closing his eyes. The brush is cold against his forehead, and he can hear the sheet rustle as Claire checks it for accuracy. Dean wonders if this was the weird, hunter equivalent of a father letting his daughter do makeup. He likes the feeling, just spending time with Claire alone. She’s always so angry, weaponizing her own pain. Most abandoned kids could relate, he supposes, but that didn’t mean he doesn’t like seeing her walls come down around him.

“Ok, I think I got it.”

“And you did it right? I don’t look like Divine or something?” Dean teases, opening his eyes. 

“Nah, you’re just as pretty as usual. In fact, this might be an upgrade.” Claire stands up, moving towards the door. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I should go pack,” she excuses, leaving.

“Don’t get too excited, there’s still things to do here!” Dean calls after her. She doesn’t respond, and Dean’s smile fades. He’s alone again; no one’s in the room. That hollow feeling he’s tried to beat back swells again. It’s stronger now, consuming him. Dean looks at his body, covered in sigils he can’t read, a good amount of which weren’t even his work. The others would be waiting for him, their canvas almost completely painted. Dean doesn’t move, however, still sitting on the bed. He’s not ready to go. As awful as the depressing absence of Cas is, which burns and stings and throbs like a witch's curse, the prospect of changing it is worse. What if this doesn’t work? Would it easier if they never tried? He’s going to the Empty to get Billie: what if she won’t let Cas out? The world needs Death, but Dean needs Castiel. He can’t let the whole world suffer because of his greed, but he also can’t lose the guy again. It’s hard to keep track of time anymore, but he can feel the “paint” on his forehead drying. When he’s confident he wouldn’t ruin Claire’s handiwork, Dean grabs a shirt and pulls it over his head, careful not to ruin any other sigils. He’s not sure what going into the Empty will be like, but he wants as much protection as possible. 

“You know, when we beat Chuck, I thought this would be over,” Sam’s voice is tired. Dean looks up, so distracted by his own grief and worry that he hasn’t noticed Sam come by.

“C’mon Sam. There’s always gonna be more monsters.” It sounds like a joke, but feels too honest to be laughable. The sad truth is that there will always be more monsters, more hunts, more apocalypses. Just another part of the Winchester Curse. They were born into his life, both as Campbell Hunters and as Men of Letters. Their parent’s marriage was planned by Heaven, their roles and destiny determined before they were even born. Every time they try to step back, take a break, stop fighting, the world punishes them for it. They don’t get to have lives. This doesn’t get to be over.

“Don’t you want to stop? Or even just pause?” Sam argues. He steps into the room, hands shoved into his jeans’ pockets. “Take a break? We’ve earned it, Dean.” Sam used to talk about retiring. He wanted to settle down, maybe go back to school, say those famous last words “one last hunt” and be done with the supernatural. Dean wasn’t sure when he changed, but he did. Now he only talks about pausing, taking some time off, always inevitably returning to hunting. Dean doesn’t know how to feel about that. After fighting for so long to get his family back together, it feels good and reassuring to have Sam so committed. Selfishly, he enjoys knowing his brother’s out with him, dedicated the way he is. But it also stings. Sammy had fought so hard to get out. He spent his entire childhood as a whiny brat, always the contrarian to whatever their shitty dad wanted. It’s part of who Sam was. Dean had accepted his role; he was the brave, stupid hunter. Strong and useless. Sam is so much more, though. He has wit and potential, strength and smarts that always keep him alive. Dean hopes that fighting spirit in his brother hasn’t died, slitting its wrists at the realization that they could never stop hunting. Dean’s certainly had. He was only 16 when it happened, but he remembers the moment like it was yesterday. John claps him on the back, laughing as the werewolf dies and slow and painful death. It wasn’t that Dean accepted his life. He realized he was trapped, and gave up waiting for rescue.

“I can’t Sammy,” Dean sighs. The words are strangled in his throat. He will not cry again. “I can’t do it. Not without Cas-”

He tries to pull himself together. He has to be strong. He wants to be there for Sam. He needs to be. He can’t think anymore. 

“Yeah, I can’t either,” Sam admits to the ground. The brothers stand in silence for a moment, stifled by the screaming absence of Castiel. “Get him back, ok?” The order is simple. Dean straightens a little, painfully reminded how Sam’s tone matched their Dad’s. “I can’t lose you, either, so you get him and you come back to me, ok?” Dean nods. Anyone who knows him knows he’s only too ready to die. Billie had called it “a martyr thing,” and Bobby summarized it in a few, less sympathetic, more colorful words. Of course, the cruel irony is that both of them are gone, but Dean is unfortunately still alive. All that self hate and destruction inside him wasn’t enough to do the one thing he wants. Sam can feel it too, his own self esteem similarly low. Winchesters are always looking for a cause worth dying over. But Sammy’s voice is pleading, needy, and desperate, like the cries of a scared child. Dean nods again, this time to himself. Doesn’t matter how tall the guy gets, Sam will always be his little brother. And Dean will always protect him. 

“Ok.” Sam tightens his lips, clearing thinking about saying something, but decides against it. He claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder, tells him they’re ready for the spell when he is, and then leaves. 

Alone again. Dean looks down at his arms, covered in sigils he’s sure he’s seen before, and tries to forget when they first came up with this idea.

Jody and the girls arrived around dinner time, bringing some take out as payback for staying over for a week. They hadn’t talked beyond the call several hours ago, and gratefully ate in silence, enjoying the company of other damaged people. All too soon, the joy of seeing friends faded and business took over. It didn’t take a psychic to see how shaken the girls were, so Sam offered to tell about his visions first. Although only the Winchesters (save for Jack) knew who Azazel or Metatron was, everyone understood the broad strokes. Two very powerful, supernatural things were eaten alive, and for some reason Sam saw that the night the wayward sisters had their own visions. Kaia jumped in, providing a few details Sam’s experience apparently left out. The “evil force” was more like a black goo, but it felt hollow. Jack recognized it as The Empty. Kaia also explained that she didn’t dreamwalk to other dimensions anymore, but did occasionally see into The Empty. She eerily described some other inhabitants Sam and Dean recognised. Patience’s premonition was different. Horrors of supercharged ghosts and poltergeists killing hunters, terrorizing normal people, and eventually ending in an outbreak of what someone called “Croatoan” that ended the world haunted her dreams. Dean didn’t remember Missouri having prophetic dreams, nor Kevin or Donatello, but he wasn’t an expert. Clearly something was going on, and the psychics were more sensitive to it. That was Donna’s theory, at least. Dean shrugged. As far as theories went, that wasn’t bad. But it didn’t explain Clarie or Dean’s dreams. He never admitted to his nightmare, but hearing what the others were talking about made him suspect it was connected somehow. People were getting eaten alive, and Sam watched while Dean felt it. 

Alex yawned, and asked to go to bed early. She did most of the driving that day. Sam showed her to a room, letting Kaia and Patience also go to sleep. It wasn’t late, but if the wayward sisters’ experience was anything like the Winchesters’, they’d be tired. Dean managed to talk Jack into hitting the hay early, promising to fill the kid in on any more details they discovered. Dean closed Jack’s bedroom door, heart pounding. He blinked back tears, trying to forget how much Jack’s enthusiasm paralleled Castiel’s. It wasn’t just his spirit. Dean found it hard to even think about Jack anymore, memories of Cas overwhelming him. Their walk, their eyes, their voice, their smile, the way they poured cereal in the morning, everything about Jack reminded Dean of Cas. Specifically, it reminded him of how Cas was gone. 

It wasn’t like last time. Last time they lost Cas, Dean let it hurt him. The pain was too immense to hold back, and the anger consumed him just as flames consumed Cas’ vessel. But he went too far. In all his grief, he’d abused Jack in a way Dean promised he’d never do. He let Sam down, and hunted ruthlessly. He’d acted just like his dad. So when they got Castiel back, a one in a million chance, Dean promised he’d be better. He started to feel things beyond anger, telling Jack how proud he was and supporting Sam more and more. Anchoring his mental health to Castiel wasn’t a great idea in hindsight, but it was the only thing that got him through both times Michael violated him. Even when Cas left, hunting on his own, Dean was alright. He was still tethered to his angel, even if the distance was a strain. 

But now Cas was gone, and with him went Dean’s reason to live. Sure, he got up every morning, wandering the Bunker’s spacious halls, listening to Jack excitedly babble about the newest Star Wars lore, or Sam gush about some True Crime facts, but he wasn’t there. Not really. Last time he’d been this low, Famine (the horseman) called him dead inside, his soul too weak to even be tempted. He didn’t feel dead. Just tired. Empty. 

“Can I talk to you alone?”

Dean turned, yanked out of his self pity by Claire’s voice. She sounded impatient, but also scared. Looking up, Dean saw her standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the ceiling. Her jaw was set in frustration, blinking back tears. Nervously, she tapped a foot, arms wrapped protectively around her waist. “Please?” she choked out, finally looking at Dean. Her eyes were puffy and her sharp, black wings smudged. Claire sniffled. He nodded, walking her to somewhere he knew they wouldn’t be interrupted. The teen gasped when Dean opened the door, but didn’t recoil from the room. Instead, she stared at the pentagram on the floor, and then directly up at the spot. The exact spot. Slowly, Claire raised a hand and caressed the bricks, breathing lightly.

“You feel it too, huh?” Dean asked, dryly. He couldn’t stop feeling it. They were right where Cas died, staring at the place where the Empty broke through to kill him. Claire nodded, pulling her hand away. “Why’d you want to talk alone?” Dean asked, unsure why Jody or Donna couldn’t be here. He was beginning to second guess showing Claire the place her other father died, when she spoke up.

“My dream last night. I didn’t- Um, I didn’t *see* Castiel, but I felt him. I thought I was drowning at first,” she laughed, failing to ease the tension in the room. “But it was him. He knows something’s after him. It’s killing others and it’s gonna get him too and-” Claire’s voice broke. Dean was already hugging her, stiffening when Claire pressed her whole body into his. “I know what we have to do,” she sobbed, unable to stop the tears anymore. “But it means losing someone.”

“It’ll be ok,” Dean tried to soothe, pretending a tear of his own didn’t fall. Claire shook her head.

“No! It’s not because someone’s gonna die and Cas wants it to be him-”

“Hey, hey,” Dean interrupted. “We are not going to let him die. You hear me?” he asked. Claire looked into his eyes, makeup somehow just as smudged as before, and nodded. “We are getting him back,” Dean repeated, more for himself than her. A comfortable silence fell over the room as Claire pulled out of the hug, sniffling again. 

“Ok. Just prom-” Claire stopped herself, clearly holding something back. She swallowed a few times, rethinking the words. “Tell me you’re not leaving too?”

“I promise.” Dean’s voice was deeper than he meant for it to be. “C’mon,” he smirked. “The geeks are gonna wonder where we are if we keep ‘em waiting any longer.”

The very next day, Sam came up with the idea to summon the Empty. Rowena told him the only way to build a convincingly dead celestial was to put it in someone who’d been touched by a celestial. Dean wouldn’t let any of his family take on the burden, reading Rowena’s posture. This was going to be dangerous. He wouldn’t let anyone else risk it.

His arm burns, snapping Dean back to the present moment. Still looking down, he watches the sigil that’d been painted over the Mark of Cain peel off and fall to the floor. Cursing under his breath, Dean reaches for the paintbrush, ready to redo it, but pauses. A deep, yearning sensation floods his body.

“Amara?” he asks, not daring to turn around. She exhales in response. Dean guesses she’s on the other side of the bed, not distant, but disappointingly far. “How’d you get in?” His hunting instincts take over before he can think about what he wants to say.

“Your warding could use some work,” she criticizes. It’s a fair response, simple and honest. Much more than Dean deserves. He swallows, feeling every agonizing second tick by. Finally he turns around, looking into her eyes.

“Why’re you here?” After their last encounter, Dean was sure he’d never see her again. Back in her intoxicating presence, he’s glad she changed her mind, but he can’t see why. 

“I could feel the spell you’re preparing all the way in Kyoto. Thought I’d come see it for myself,” she answers nonchalantly. Some part of Dean despairs that she hasn’t come here for him, but a larger part is glad. He’s tired of fighting gods. But something tickles the back of his mind, the mark on his arm begging to be closer.

“No, that’s not right,” he observes, drinking in Amara’s defensive form. She’s hiding something. Cas had been hiding his deal with the Empty for years. Dean’s not sure he could survive losing Amara, too. 

“Cain’s gone,” she admits, hesitantly. “If I lose you in the Empty, our bond will be broken. For the first time in years, I’ll be alone.” Something in his heart weeps at the thought, remembering experiences of millenia trapped in the Empty, while Chuck’s creations thrived in his absence. Her absence. Shaking slightly, Dean reminds himself those are her memories, not his. He is more than the Mark of Cain.

“What’ll you do?” Dean asks, concern bleeding in his voice. Not that he fears the world being unprotected against Destruction incarnate, but rather he wonders how Amara would get on, unprotected and dangerous. Humans are social creatures, what the hell are gods?

“I don’t know.” Her voice is small. Being alone in the Empty is an unpleasant dream, the way being covered in bugs feels. Being alone in the world, where others are happily together and celebrating? Dean can’t bear it. Amara has no experience with it, having learned about how to be human from maybe the worst teachers in the world. There’s so much Dean and Cain just can’t teach her, and so much she’d struggle to learn on her own. “What I do know is that I should be here. Right now,” She moves closer, stepping around the bed. In a swift movement, she repaints the sigil on Dean’s arm. 

“Let’s go,” Dean whispers, taking her hands in his. He leads her around the metal hallways, picking up the amulet Eileen left him. The group gathered in the dungeon, patiently making small talk as they waited. It all dies as Dean and Amara enter.

Rowena tells Dean to lay down in the center of the pentagram. Hyper aware of the eyes on him, he does as instructed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what will happen next, or if he can prepare for it. Rowena begins chanting, and pours something on his chest. Dean tries to keep looking at the ceiling, staying as still as possible, but whatever Rowena did starts to hurt. Burning, searing pain covers his body, emanating from every sigil. Instinctively, he flops on his side, crying out in pain. The room goes red, just before completely blacking out. He thinks he can hear Sam shout something, maybe commotion or a crash, but it’s distant. The burning only gets worse, and Dean’s sure he’s dying. Whatever spell they’re trying went wrong, there must be a missing ingredient or sigil or maybe Rowena missed a word or-

When the pain subsides, Dean opens his eyes. He hasn’t realized he closed them. Actually, he’s not sure he’s opening them now. Everything’s dark. Not the black ooze he expected, or even seen in the Bunker that awful day. No, instead there is just nothing. The absence of light. Dean closes his eyes and opens them again, but there’s no difference.

Before him is empty. The Empty.  
\--

He doesn’t remember anything. He wanders. Maybe for a minute, maybe for a year, he wanders around, making noise, calling for others, being as loud as possible. Cas described his own grand escape as “annoying” the Empty into letting him out. If there’s something Dean “chronic older brother syndrome” Winchester could do, it’s annoy people. 

Dean’s not as smart as Sam, but he’s pretty good at picking up engineering and science concepts. He knows that sound is a longitudinal wave and it has to have a medium to travel across. So when he hears what could only be described as the sounds of someone being eaten alive, he comes to a few realizations.

One: he was here to find Billie and Castiel  
Two: something was eating people alive in The Empty  
Three: he’d sent plenty of demons and angels to the Empty who would love nothing more than to get back at him  
Four: he was in The Empty, with no idea how to leave

His wandering accelerates into a run, taking him in the opposite direction of wherever the cannibalistic sounds come from. Eventually the sounds become more distant. He still can’t see anything. Dean slows to a stop, out of breath. How long has he been running? Panting, he tries to remember more about why he entered the Empty. He has a mission: find Billie and Castiel. He felt a burning pain that stopped when he reached the abyss. He’d been covered in sigils. Checking his body now, they’re all gone. He’s kept the clothes he took in on his way to the Empty, but all the guns, ammo, and angel blade he’d had were just gone. 

He starts to wander again.

The Empty is strange. There’s no time, no direction, no suffering. Just a nagging feeling of shame and the vast, unyielding dreadful void in all directions. Intimately familiar with the first feeling, and getting used to the second, Dean keeps wandering. He doesn’t hear much. Vaguely, he thinks he remembers hearing something, but he can’t remember what. He doesn’t know how long he’s been wandering, or in what direction. There isn’t direction. He keeps moving. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He keeps moving. He misses Sam. He keeps moving. He feels alone. He keeps moving. This is useless. He keeps moving. He’s going to die here. He keeps moving. 

“Dean Winchester.” A familiar voice cooes. Dean follows the sound until he sees who made it. “And here I was thinking I’d never see you in the Empty.”

Billie and her smug grin. Dean doesn’t care. He’s been wandering for years. Decades. Centuries. Minutes? He’s just happy to see another person. He remembers why he’d come here: he had to get her back to Earth. He remembers who else he came for. 

“Don’t get too excited, I’m not staying. And neither are you,” he says, shrugging his arms in the universal “eh” motion. “Earth needs Death. You’re the best woman- person?- for the job.” Billie’s eyes narrowed.

“Let me get this straight. You Winchesters ruined the world, and want me to bail you out again?” Dean shrugs again, this time sheepishly. That’s certainly one way of putting it. “Tough shit, kid. You’re the last person I want to see. And after the stunt you pulled” she takes off part of her shirt, revealing the lethal scrape on her shoulder Dean left. “I’m not helping you do anything.” 

“C’mon Billie. You don’t mean that,” Dean tries. Billie stares him down in response. “Something’s killing people here. I’m your best shot at avoiding that. I’m also your best shot at being God.” Billie attempts to hide it, but that piques her interest. Dean reads it in her body language, the miniscule shifting of her weight. 

“Last time I tried, you killed me. I don’t make mistakes twice.”

“Good, ‘cause this isn’t a mistake. You used to be a reaper. You know how the Empty works. Help me find Cas, and I’ll let you out scott free.” Billie’s eyes widen in incredulity.

“You’ll ‘let me out’? You don’t even know how to move in here. I found you, Winchester. And I can leave you alone again, too.” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You can. But I’m human, which means I’m not staying here. You’re a reaper- you’ll stay here for as long as forever.” Billie clenches her jaw in thought. Dean’s offer isn’t asking much, but trusting Winchesters always gets someone killed. 

“Fine. I’ll play along. But, at the end of this ride, someone stays. Take up to five people out of here, but one stays.” Dean nods. He makes shitty deals all the time. He’ll think of a way to worm out of this one, too.

Billie reaches out, pressing something into Dean’s hand. Taking a moment to look down at it, Dean finds himself alone in the void again. A small design on his hand, in flowy letters he knows he shouldn’t be able to comprehend, is the name “Death.” It dissipates into his skin, leaving only a few black veins where the word had been. For a moment, his hand tingles.

Navigating through the Empty is not about physical exertion. In a place with no limits, no ground, no distance, and no space, there’s no point to moving. The only way people exist in the Empty is as conscious thoughts. That means the only way to find others is to think about them so completely and wholeheartedly that the Empty mistakes you for them. Billie’s in Dean’s mind, sharing this secret with him. Slowly, Dean inhales a shaky breath. Cas has been consuming his thoughts ever since he died. Dean closes his eyes, thinking about the angel. When he opens them, he’s still alone. 

“What are you?” Dean recognises the voice. A cool dread trickles down his spine as he turns to confront the figure speaking. 

“Anna?” He gasps. He remembers when Michael (their universe Michael) killed her so long ago. Of course she ended up here, the waking grave of dead angels. There isn’t light, yet he can see her.

“Thought I’d use a familiar face,” she retorts, black ooze dripping from her eye. “Who are you?” She repeats, this time less of a question. Dean doesn’t respond, too busy trying to figure out what Anna means. Something in his brain reminds him that the Empty would take on different shapes to speak. That’s one of Billie’s thoughts. 

“I can see every being in here,” The Empty continues, twisting Anna’s voice into something sinister. “But I can’t see you.”

“I’m right here,” Dean says, stupidly. He was standing right in front of Anna. “And how do you know I knew Anna?” he continues, suspicious. He doesn’t expect the Empty to be completely honest, since nearly every extraplanar cosmic entity he’s met manipulated him, but the Empty’s lies are worse than Sam’s.

“I can feel Her,” Anna respondes. In the back of his mind, Dean thinks about Billie, who disappeared after talking to him. “She’s with you, now. I can see where you two are merged. She,” Anna gestures to herself, “Is there, too.” Dean looks down at his hand, where black veins stared back. “So,” Anna said, angry this time. “What. Are. You.”

“Human.” Anna’s eyes narrow, squeezing out another voidborne tear. 

“Leave.” Anna commands. Dean digs his heels into the nonexistent ground. He’s not going anywhere. 

“Not until I get my friend,” Dean’s response is stubborn. “Where is Castiel.” Anna grimaces.

“The beings in here are talking together, using their miniscule power to keep me awake. Make it stop, and I’ll let you out.” As soon as Anna appears, she leaves. Dean checks his hand, half expecting to see Anna’s name where Death’s had been. Nothing happens.

“Any idea how to do that?” he asks his hand, hoping Billie will respond. Flashes of her deal with Jack and the Empty play in his mind. Billie’s memories again. She needed Jack and the other Winchesters to destroy Chuck. She would absorb some of his power, using it to put the Empty back to sleep. She could still do it, if Dean keeps his end of the deal. He would certainly try, although he doesn’t like the idea of leaving someone behind. Dean closes his eyes again, trying to concentrate on Castiel. In his mind’s eye, he pictures the dork, with the trenchcoat and doughy face Dean wants to see again. When he opens his eyes, he’s still alone. Bille’s explanation repeats in his head again. He has to give himself over to thoughts of Castiel so completely and wholeheartedly that the Empty thinks he is Cas. Dean tries. He thinks about Castiel, angel of the lord, only being to truly have free will independent of Chuck’s influence. And then he stops. His wrist hurts with that stupid phantom pain.

Dean could give his thoughts to others. He never thought of a life for himself. He wasn’t trained to. But, over the past ten years, Cas tirelessly wore that down, poisoning Dean with hope for a future outside of hunting. A future outside of giving himself to the world. And then Cas died, leaving Dean more broken and abused and hurt than anything John had done. Because as much as Cas sacrificed for Dean, he would always be ready to do the same. For once in his stupid, meaningless life, Dean Winchester felt like an individual. But now Cas was gone and Dean couldn’t hold onto that flimsy image of himself, instead throwing all his attention and energy back into saving the world, making Jack smile, threatening to cut Sam’s hair, learning ASL for Eileen, searching for a way to help Kevin. When Castiel died he took Dean’s individuality with him. 

So why the hell is he having so much trouble thinking about Cas now?

He can think of a few reasons. They’re only half truths. Billie’s in his brain, maybe limiting what he can think about. Or maybe he hasn’t fully gotten over all the stigma and hate John threw at him, still hesitant to think about a man he loves. Maybe he can’t think about Castiel because he’s only ever seen the guy in a vessel, not his true form. All of that could be true, but it’s not the main reason. 

He refuses to be hurt again. 

The simple truth is that, after all the sacrifice and torture and bullshit and long, lonely nights they suffered for each other, Dean isn’t ready. He can’t give himself fully to Castiel. Falling to his knees, Dean realizes he’ll be stuck here forever, cold and alone. He refuses to be vulnerable. The one thing that had kept him alive, or at least always coming back to life, was all the trauma he’d remolded into a metaphorical shield, keeping himself safe from whatever the world threw his way. Every experience, every hunt, every dreadful morning and long night reinforced that protective reaction. He’s never been an individual, but he’s not defenseless. Like a hollow suit of armor, displayed for others to show off wealth or age or prestige, Dean has a long history and grand reputation, but at the end of the day he’s just a single thing. Like a hollow suit of armor, polished by servants and employees, Dean reflectes whatever was in front of him: John’s alcoholism, Alastair’s torture, Purgatory’s instability, the Mark of Cain’s homicide, otherworld Michael’s contempt. Like a hollow suit of armor, Dean is useless.

Closing his eyes again, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. Since the Empty had taken him, Dean didn’t pray to Cas. He didn’t want to waste the breath, confident the angel wouldn’t hear him admitting weakness. There was just no point. 

“I pray to thee, Castiel, angel of Thursday,” Dean starts, letting out a shaky breath. “The one who pulled me and Sammy outta hell, who rebelled against God, who gave his life for Jack.” He’s on a roll now, taking full advantage of his solitude. “The one who stopped me from killing myself, the one who looked out for Sam, the one who’s always been there even when we- *I*- couldn’t do the same.” He swallows thickly. “I know I never said it, but damn it Cas, I love you. I love you back and I’ll always love you, you stupid bastard.”

He’s never said it before. Of course, he’s told others he loved them, but never Cas. He tried to show it, through actions and gestures, and those special, quiet moments when they lay together at night. But he never actually put a voice to his thoughts. How could he? Castiel is so much to him. His love, his life, his angel. His curse, his burden, his aloof idiot who doesn’t understand references or like rock music. His brother in arms, his confidant, his companion in the middle of the night when all he wants to do was get drunk and think about nothing. He is more than all that. He’s Cas. The words sound clunky in Dean’s ears and a little rushed. Something cold and soft touches his chin. It tilts his head up, until Dean’s on his knees in supplication, sacrificing himself at the altar of Castiel. Dean opens his eyes, gasping softly.

“Hello, Dean.”

Instantly, Dean’s on his feet, hugging Castiel, laughing and burying his face in the angel’s neck. The trenchcoat is cold and a little stiff, but Dean’s fingers clench it anyways, desperate to hold Cas. He’s spent so many nights fantasizing about this, about wrapping the angel in his arms and never letting go. He never imagined it’d be in the Empty, a steady cold dread permeating the air around them, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is that Castiel’s here. When he pulls back, just enough to look at Castiel’s face, he frowns.

“Cas?” He asks, untangling his arms from Castiel’s body. He moves them to hold Cas’ shoulders, desperate to keep the angel in front of him. Castiel looks at Dean, eyes bleeding the same black goo Anna’s did. 

“It’s me, Dean,” he promises, bringing a hand to rest on top of Dean’s. “And a few others. Something’s hunting us.” Cas’ voice turns serious, all the warmth in his initial greeting melting away. “We tried to fight it, but it didn’t stop. I think it hurt the Empty. Ever since, it’s been punishing us.”

“What? Who else is in there? How’s it punishing you?” Dean searches Cas’ face for answers. He looks normal, the experience of his years beginning to pull against his skin, hair pulled back like he’d run his hands through it a few times. Cas’ hand falls back to his side.

“Crowley, Benny, a few others. It’s nothing to worry about. Neither is this.” He points to where the ooze bleeds from his eyes. Dean tries to interject, but Cas continues. “And, I know what’s hunting us: a leviathan.”

The word brings Dean back to the present. He’s still in the Empty, with Billie lurking in his brain. Leviathans are practically indestructible, and the last time he dealt with one, it led to one of the worst years of his life. Dean’s a hunter. Time to act like it.

“Where.” He asks it too seriously to be a question, and scans the void beyond Cas’ beautiful face for any signs of danger. All he sees is darkness. Castiel shakes his head. He doesn’t know either. Dean bites his lip. He doesn’t like the circumstances, but they aren’t entirely hopeless. “Ok,” he mutters, making a decision.

“Ok, I have a plan,” he states louder, looking into Castiel’s vacant eyes again. “I can get you out of here. But you have to put the Empty back to sleep.” 

“I don’t know how.” Yes you do, Billie responds, her voice reverberating around Dean’s mind. It’s quieter than otherworld Michael, but just as forceful. 

“C’mon man, we don’t have a lot of time. Think,” Dean encourages, checking behind Cas again. He lightly squeezes the angel’s shoulder.

“It first woke up when I did,” Cas ponderes, talking more to himself than Dean. “But it didn’t know how to go back to sleep either. I think if anyone is awake here, the Empty is forced awake.” In his mind, Billie nods. Cas’ voice is stronger now, and he looks Dean right in the eyes. “How do we get everyone here to sleep?”

Billie doesn't respond, but Dean can feel her knowledge. There aren’t many people awake and kicking in the Empty. Really, it’s just the three of them (Billie, Dean, and Cas with everyone inside him), Metatron, and Dick Roman. Well, one of those is taken care of. Actually, his body housing Billie and himself doesn’t annoy the Empty. If anything, it intrigues it, and the Empty seemed to be more willing to negotiate with Dean than anyone else here. And then, as Dean Winchester is often to do, he gets a terrible idea.

“Possess me.” He moves his hands to Castiel’s cheeks, cupping the soft, cold skin in his palms. Cas panics, ready to object, but Dean speaks over him. “I’m human, I can’t stay here. Anyone in my body also gets out.” Not everyone, Billie reminds him. He ignores her. “Possess me,” he urges again. Cas shakes his head.

“Dean, I can’t. I would never-” He interrupts himself, finding better words. “I won’t take your body as my own, last time I did that-” He looks down, pitifully. “I won’t,” he repeats. Dean also remembered what happened to Jimmy Novak, and the entire Novak family. Castiel tore them apart, ruining all three of their lives with heaven’s bullshit. Dean lowers his arms, determined to follow through on his bad idea.

“Let me take the others,” Dean bargains. Cas huffs, but eventually agrees. He raises a hand to Dean’s forehead. Dean glimpses a few of Cas’ veins, rainbow lines snaking along the blood vessels of his forearm. And then they start to move, rushing towards Dean. 

It’s a rush, his body expanding and contracting metaphysically to house all the nonhumans. Cas isn’t wrong, there were only a few, but each one hurt, a throbbing sensation gripping his whole body. When it’s over, Dean opens his eyes. All he sees is black. It’s not the same darkness as the rest of the Empty, this time it’s an all consuming color that let no light through. Something thick and cold streaks down his cheek. Something else, Dean assumes a finger, wipes it away. It smears across his face. 

“Dean? Are you alright?” Cas’ voice is laced with concern. He steps forward, and Dean can feel how close the angel is. He nods, the pain already fading. His head rings as multiple things try to talk over each other, but none of them are louder than overworld Michael was. He can handle this.

“One left,” Dean smirks. He hears Cas recoil, but not step back. 

“No,” he responds. It’s the same stubborn voice Claire used. Dean tries to think of a comeback (thinking is harder now that there are multiple entities in his body, their thoughts and memories all folded into his), but it’s interrupted. Distantly, something roars. Cas stiffens, his coat rustling slightly. They both recognize the sound. 

Leviathan.

“There’s no time,” Dean urges, returning his attention to Castiel. He steps forward, getting even closer. Unable to see, he slides a hand around Cas’ waist, pulling them chest to chest. “You have to,” he pleads. 

“Ok.” Cas’ voice is pained, gentle and unguarded. It’s the same tone he used when he confessed- the day he died. Dean leans in, closing the distance with a kiss. Castiel reciprocates, pressing closer, lips chapped and greedy from his time alone. A cool rush washes over Dean’s body as Cas’ grace enters, transferred between their lips. His hand burns, melding to Cas’ hip. Hungrily, he leans in more, until Cas is a part of him. Dick roars again, shockingly close, but it doesn’t matter. Dean can feel his body warming, leaving the Empty. Something cold and hateful splashes against him, a scream of agony being the last thing he hears.  
\--

Humans aren’t meant for interdimensional travel. Not many things are, but humans are particularly fragile. Dean collapses into Castiel’s arms, exhausted. Cas squeezes him tightly, breathing softly into the hunter’s brown hair. Dean leans in, hands gripping at the trench coat. It feels real, threadbare and warm just like he remembered. His cheek presses harder against Cas, concentrating on his angel’s heartbeat. It’s strong and sturdy and Cas’ chest feels like the safest place in the world. Right as he falls asleep, Dean sighs, finally reunited with Castiel.

He wakes up intermittently, stirring just enough to move around, maybe even shift his weight, and groan a little. The fourth time he half heartedly rolls over, Dean finally wakes. His whole body aches and the world is blurry. Beneath him, Baby’s engine purrs, and the window wipers occasionally thump, sloshing rain off the windshield. He blinks a few times, forcing the world into focus. He’s in Baby’s passenger seat, being driven down a long, lonely road. Outside it rains, but there’s no thunder or lightning. It’s dark out, and not a single star dots the night sky. Looking over his shoulder, a small smile pulls at Dean’s lips. Castiel is driving, a content look on his face. Some Taylor Swift song plays on the radio. It’s the one Dean gets stuck in his head sometimes, the pop beat too damn catchy. He’ll never admit this to Sam, but he actually loves it.

“Where are we?” Dean asks, trying to bring himself back to the present. This was too happy to be a dream, but too immaterial to be a djinn vision. He can’t think what else it could be. The mere effort makes his head throb in protest, and radio static fuzzed the song that plays. Cas jumps, pulling the car off to the side of the road. He’s quiet, looking Dean up and down with those big, blue, doe eyes. 

“You’re awake?” he finally asks. Dean laughs dryly.

“Unfortunately,” he responds. He’s not sure this is a dream, but it’s too good to be real life.

“We’re in your mind,” Cas explains. Dean narrows his eyes, suspicious, but Cas just smiles. “Don’t try to focus, that makes this harder. You saved me from the Empty, remember?” Dean looks away and laughs, this time for real. He doesn’t remember actually going, but Cas sounds truthful. The last week was full of preparing to go to the Empty, had he already done it? Had it been easy?

His body still aches. Laughing hadn’t been the best move. A hand already snakes across his waist, clutching his tender ribs. They’re screaming in protest, and the rain seems to be falling harder now. Cas leans over, his hand warm against Dean’s shoulder.

“Just rest,” he soothes, and Dean almost falls asleep again. He can’t, though. There’s too many questions in his brain. All those years of hunting had trained his body to stay awake until he was satisfied. While this wasn’t paranoia, he didn’t like being in an unfamiliar location.

“If we’re in my mind, why does everything hurt,” Dean complains. Cas looks down at his own lap, taking his hand off Dean’s shoulder. He remains quiet, even when Dean looks over. “Buddy? Can you hear me?” he prods, leaning forward. Cas seems like he’s in pain, too. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Cas mumbles, pointedly gazing away from Dean. 

“C’mon dude, we’re all alone,” Dean responds. Cas sighs before answering.

“On our way out of the Empty, a leviathan attacked you. It died, but I got wounded in the fight. And humans aren’t supposed to go to the Empty, so you’re still feeling repercussions of that.” Dean nods. He doesn’t remember any of this, but it sounds familiar. But he doesn’t see the part where Castiel embarrasses him. “Now, I’ve been trying to heal us,” Cas stops. A thick silence settles between them.

“Cas?”

“Angels heal through love,” Cas blurts out. Dean leans back, surprised. “I haven’t been inside your head before, not really, but I know you. I know you don’t want to say you love me, but I’m almost completely healed, and so is everyone else in here-”

“Who else is here?” Dean demands, eyes widening. He needs to change the conversation. Cas appears relieved to change it too, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. 

“Just a few others. You’ll remember them soon. They’re not causing any trouble, I promise,” he reassures. For a moment his eyes glow with angelic grace, and Dean feels a gentle heat in his chest.

“Oh,” Dean breathes. “You weren’t kidding about being fully healed,” he jokes. The music fuzzes again as he realizes the implications of what he just said. Cas’ eyes widen and he focuses on his lap again. They can’t look at each other, and Dean choses to stare straight ahead. The rain thumping against the car is almost melodic.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” Cas confesses. “And if that makes you uncomfortable I’ll leave and stay away, but it won’t change that I love you with my whole being.” Dean doesn’t wince at the word ‘love.’ He doesn’t. But it’s a bad word for him. It means pain is on the way.

“Cas I-” Dean’s voice falters. He can’t say it. The Winchester Curse had already hurt Castiel so much, he refused to make it worse. Baby’s radio plays a few memories, of telling Lisa he loves her, of telling Benny, and of telling Lee. They all ended badly. Thunder rumbles for the first time, shockingly close to the car. Dean’s worried for a moment, before remembering this is his mind. He probably couldn’t get struck by lightning in here. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads, not able to hold it back anymore. The rain pours outside, and Cas sighs sympathetically. Dean can’t say “I love you,” but he can say so much more.

“Of course,” he responds, and instantly Dean is wrapped in a hug. It’s warm and soft and Dean drifts off again, safe in Castiel’s arms.

He wakes up later. It’s still night, but the world is less blurry. The rain’s stopped and a few stars dot the sky. More interestingly, there’s something in the distance along the road. It looks like a small town, but it remains blurry no matter how Dean squints.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is refreshing. Dean smirks.

“Better than last time,” he admits. “And I remember more of what happened.” He’s referring to his stunt in the Empty, but also more recent events. Maybe Cas was right about this whole love and healing thing. The thought of saying it out loud is still nauseating, but Dean’s working around it. And he knows Cas knows that, if his kind smile means anything.

“That’s good, Dean. You’re going to need more rest, but your body should be moving.” Oh, right. He’ll have to tell everyone in the Bunker what happened. The thought is daunting. “If you’re not ready, we can stay here. Right now, you’re asleep on the dungeon floor.” Dean thinks over his options. He’s not ready to rejoin the world of the living, but he can’t just stay passed out on the ground. Sam and Jack need him. Dean stares at Cas. 

Castiel’s betrayed him twice now. Once due to his own mistakes, and the second time due to mind control. Maybe that time in the crypt shouldn’t count, but he did beat the shit out of Dean. Despite both times, he trusted Castiel completely. They’d been through too much together. The choice is easy.

“You take control,” Dean relents. Cas almost stops the car in surprise. Dean continues. “I still want some control, you know. Let me at least know what’s happening out there, unlike-” The ground rumbles. This is Dean’s mind, of course the memory of Otherworld Michael would be more powerful here. Cas understands. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, voice soft. Dean nods, and then says something he would never admit to anyone else.

“I’m yours.”

Castiel smiles. He understands. Slowly, he steps out of the car, switching seats with Dean.

“Be careful with my body,” Dean jokes. Cas almost laughs.

“Wouldn’t want to damage such a fine ass,” he retorts, before disappearing. He’s not gone completely. Dean can still feel him, in the warm night air, but his image is gone. Switching Baby’s radio to the perfect classic rock station, he finishes the drive into town. It’s almost completely empty, but one building’s lights are on, and the inviting hum of dull conversation drifts from the windows. Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Dean parks the car and walks in, ready to meet whatever his mind’s conjured up.

All the roadhouses’ patrons are the creatures he carried out of the Empty. A few look over when he opens the door, but no one really acknowledges him. Dean heads straight for the bar. While it’s devoid of people, it’s far from empty. Taking a few bottles off the shelves, he starts pouring drinks.  
\--

Dean can’t stay still. He’s pacing, serving drinks, doing anything to keep himself busy. Cas is in the driver’s seat, but he’s in shotgun. No matter what the angel does, Dean can feel it. He knows Cas would never take him over, do something against his will, violate him like Michael-

“Dean.” Billie’s voice is cold and clear, washing over him the same way beer does when Sam throws an open can to his brother. “We need to talk,” she says, pointedly resting her scythe against the bar. He doesn’t want to look at it, but it’s too big. The blade is sharp and almost gleams in the unnatural roadhouse light. Dean sighs. He knew this was coming, but it still hurt. He has to pick someone to sacrifice to the Empty.

“Yeah, I remember,” Dean says, finally standing in one place. He’s still nervous, and picks up a rag. There’s things to clean- his mind will always keep him busy. Billie looks at his working hands sympathetically. He doesn’t want her sympathy. He wants to keep everyone alive. “Someone goes back.”

He couldn’t have said it louder than a whisper, but the entire roadhouse goes silent. Dean stops cleaning a plate, before going at it with renewed vigor. This is his mind. Of course everyone squatting here can hear his thoughts. Billie only nods, still watching his hands. Her scythe seems to grow, looming over the bar now, casting a menacing shadow across Dean’s arm, highlighting the Mark of Cain’s scar. The stupid thing’s glowing. Damn, he hates being in his mind. It’s too vulnerable. All his scars shined like neon signs, pointing directly to all his failures. 

He knows he shouldn’t look up, but Dean Winchester is a glutton for punishment, and can’t help himself. It’s a shy gesture, barely locking eyes with everyone in the roadhouse. They’re not looking at him anymore, but they’re not *not* looking. Instead, they’re in poses, pretending like they’re not eavesdropping. Dean knows the posture well, he’s done it enough himself. There’s a kind of stiffness in the neck, muscles forced to both relax and tense up. He looks back down at his hands. The plate’s clean, but there's more to clean. There’s always more.

Crowley, Benny, Cain, Billie, Castiel, and Dean made it out. This is his brain. He’s in charge. He’s in control. But he can feel all that foreign anxiety on top of his own. Billie stands up.

“I’ll give you some time,” she excuses, gliding towards the roadhouse door. Her scythe remains. As soon as the door shuts behind her, three pairs of eyes fall on Dean. He can’t meet any of them. Instead, he keeps his head down. The glass in his dominant hand is clean, nearly spotless, but there are more that are still dirty. He wants to say something, mouth achingly dry. Silence reigns over the roadhouse, not even the sound of the rag against a glass breaking it. The lights flicker. Dean winces, his arm beginning to ache. On the outside, he knows his body’s been hit. He’s familiar with the pain, having been punched more times than he could count, but it still hurts. A warm wind rushes through the room, despite the windows and door being closed. Impossibly, it feels apologetic, and Dean knows it’s Cas. He’s manning the steering wheel for a vessel that isn’t his. Of course, Dean forgives him, the sentiment hanging in the air before he can verbalize it. Crowley sighs and rolls his eyes. Right. They’re all in his head- they can hear him. He can’t wait until they leave. 

But that would means condemning one of them to go back to that godless, frigid, gooey pit. 

It won’t be Castiel. Everyone knows this. Although Dean can hear Cas’ grace whispering in his ears, promising that he’d sacrifice himself again for Dean without hesitation, it won’t be him. Dean’s grip on the rag tightens. He can’t lose Cas again. 

Sighing, Dean closes his eyes and focuses. He’s no stranger to possession. His time as a vampire, demon, and Michael’s meatsuit made him intimately familiar with the recesses of his own mind, having been forced there so many times. He knows where he can go to be alone. When he opens his eyes again, the roadhouse is empty. All but Billie’s scythe have cleared out. He can’t even feel Cas. 

For every glass he cleans, there’re at least three more waiting. The repetitive activity is calming, but he can’t relax fully. Even when he doesn’t look at it, the scythe’s shadow falls across his arm. 

“Dean.” The hunter’s head snaps up, a brief flurry of panic seizing his chest. Cain’s sitting at one of the barstools, just a few feet away. He smiles slyly. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, kid. I’m a knight of hell, remember?” Dean nods, going back to work. He wants to be alone, and as long as he doesn’t see the guy, he can pretend he is. 

After a few glasses Dean dropped the rag he’s using to dry them. He can feel Cain’s eyes looking him up and down, resting on the Mark a few times. 

“What do you want?” He asks angrily. Cain brushes off the hostility, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s a lot of things I want,” he begins, lazily. “But we gotta talk.” His voice turns sour. “You’re gonna send someone back.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Cain raises one hand. “It’s going to be me.”

“No,” Dean hisses, slamming his hands on the table. Cain doesn’t even react. Dean curses under his breath, hating how easily the older man could read him. He couldn’t even keep Billie’s sick deal a secret from him. 

“You already know it’s me. I’m taking the choice out of your hands, boy.”

“No!” Dean shouts, now. Anger fills his body, straightening his posture and finally bringing him to look the stupid bastard in the eyes. The roadhouse lights glow brighter. “You don’t deserve it. The Mark is over and Amara’s been out for a while now. We can move on,” he urges, softening under Cain’s glare. “You can finally live your life.”

“When’s the last time you read Genesis?” It throws Dean off guard. He tries to think, going over the last biblical hunts he dealt with. The roadhouse radio barks out a few of the memories, and Dean groans. He doesn’t like how open his mind is. 

“It’s been a few months,” Dean admits. He’s never been to Sunday School, and Sammy was better at research anyways. 

“I couldn’t die. Not for at least 777 years. But humanity had moved on from our little family, and a few centuries in, I was killed. Lilith was Lucifer’s first demon, but I was his second. I’ve been alive ever since, Dean. You know the drill. Relapse and remission, stopping between murders just to clean the blood off your shoes.”

“You don’t have to live like that anymore,” Dean pleads. “We’re done now. You can have a life again.”

“I had a life. I’ve had many. Colette was my true love, but I’ve fathered at least a tenth of humanity. Face it, son. I’m the one who’s going back to the Empty.” Dean shudders. He can’t bring himself to say the name of that hateful place, but Cain says it so casually. Brain spinning, Dean tries to think of another argument. The roadhouse radio sputters, switching channels at random for a minute. Cain doesn’t deserve this. Dean won’t kill him twice.

“I want to see my parents again,” Cain confesses. He’s looking down at the bar, long, grey hair falling in his eyes. Dean’s eyes narrow. Adam’s still alive, somehow. His spite against Chuck was the only thing keeping him going. “After I killed Abel, God banished me. I was young and dumb, and I didn’t even try to reach out. I died alone in Babylon. There was no going back. The longer I stalled, the harder it was to see him again. I haven’t seen him in millennia.”

“You don’t know that they’re dead.” Dean muttered. It’s a weak argument, but he has to try. Years ago, when they’d first met, Cain said he recognised himself in Dean. There was the obvious, of course: they both had younger brothers who Satan took a personal interest in. They were both murderers, forced into a life of psychotic killing by supernatural forces. They’d both died and come back, both been demons, both fallen in love and brought unspeakable torture upon their lover. They’d both suffered. Looking at Cain now, Dean began to see himself in the immortal. He set his jaw in anger, the same way Dean did when John didn’t leave enough food for his sons on long hunts. Something behind those blue eyes seemed broken, but it was buried deep. 

“They’re not dead yet,” Cain acknowledges. “But neither are you. When you see Adam again, tell him I’ll be waiting.” And with that, Cain stood up. The roadhouse door swings open, and Billie walks in, the lights dimming around her. The scythe flies to her open hand. Cain stands up, and walks forward. 

And then they’re both gone. The roadhouse shakes slightly, and settles. Dean’s arm burns cold, exactly where the Mark of Cain was. He’s felt that specific sensation before, the first time he killed Cain. Breathing in slowly, Dean closes his eyes. They’re both gone, he can feel it. The buzzing in his head doesn’t let up, but it’s softer. He’s not weighed down by Death or the Father of Murder sharing his brain. And he’s finally alone.

A soft wind blows through the open doorway. In Castiel’s somehow reassuringly gruff voice, it asks if Dean’s ok. He nods, lying, and wipes away a tear. The breeze is warm, and swirls around him a few times. More than anything, he just wants a beer. Something to take the edge off, maybe some sleeping pills or one of Sam’s stupid tangents about the morality of monster hunting. He needs something familiar that he could hold onto and never let go of. Not for the first time, he wants Bobby.

The sun’s risen when Cas uses his voice again. He seems apologetic, and Dean instantly knows why. His shoulder aches as if it’s been stabbed. 

“What did you do?” he hisses, right as Cas asks for his help. Making sure the other freeloaders in his mind are locked away, Dean nods. He’s ready to take over his body again.

He knows what's going on, but sharing control with Castiel's different. Dean has both accounts, his own and his angel’s. So when he opens his eyes and sees the imposing form of Naomi, angel blade thrust into his shoulder, he's more than a little pissed.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first chapter of my Supernatural Longfic! I have no consistent posting schedule because school this semester is going to suck, so i guess bookmark or maybe subscribe to see when i get the next chapter out? it'll be soon, cause im real excited to write it.  
> this chapter was the longest because i had to establish plot, characters, and the secret good version of supernatural that lives in my head. big shoutout to geekthefreakout and sickandtiredofyou for not letting me stop writing. but i rescind that shoutout to sickandtiredofyou because they're taking all my cool scene ideas and writing them better. rude.


End file.
